DARK MOON RISING

The dark moon hit my eye last night in Portland, Oregon.

Tucked away on the 14th floor near the Willamette River with friends and drinks, I interrupted everything for a special announcement:

“I see a bad moon rising.”

It looked huge, this moonrise, and kept getting bigger and more interesting.

What’s not to like about a big moon breaking through the clouds?

Except it wasn’t the clouds. What the heck was going on out there?

The sky darkened with the coming night and flocks of black birds flew in from the east.

Was it an unusual number of birds, Alfred Hitchcock’s pets, or the same bunch flying in a big circle.

Were they birds of a feather, flying together, after an afternoon over Hawthorne?

 

Don’t go around tonight
Well, it’s bound to take your life
There’s a bad moon on the rise

 

I Waited 

 

And waited some more.

 

 

Breathe, breathe in the air.
Don’t be afraid to care.
Leave but don’t leave me.
Look around and choose your own ground.

Long you live and high you fly
And smiles you’ll give and tears you’ll cry
And all you touch and all you see
Is all your life will ever be.

 

Dark Side Of The Bad Moon Rising

I’ve forgiven Pink Floyd for their pessimism, right or wrong.

If I want life advice from a Cambridge boy I’ll call cousin Paul. (Hey Paul)

He’s from the same neighborhood and took us around in a car to visit the band’s childhood homes.

That’s where we saw Syd Barrett riding a bike along the side of the road to the local Sainsbury.

 

 

There he was, a once beautiful rock star beyond any imagination, including his own.

After motoring past his mom’s house and turning around, we turned right.

We passed an elderly looking gentleman riding a bike with a basket on the front.

“That’s Syd Barrett,” the locals said.

 

In 1978, Barrett moved in with his mother in Cambridge, and returned to painting. He also began to garden.

He stayed out of the limelight, became annoyed when paparazzi snapped his picture and kept to himself, interacting mostly with his sister, Rosemary. Although he was hospitalized briefly, he was never officially diagnosed with a mental illness or medicated.

Barrett died of pancreatic cancer on July 7, 2006, at the age of 60, in Cambridge, England.

 

What To Make Of A Lunar Eclipse

Did anyone else get hyped up for this moon show like so many did for the solar eclipse a few years back?

I heard something about it, and forgot until I looked out the window and saw the slow crawl over the horizon turn into something else.

How often does that happen? You thought one thing, but it was the other; you made the right choice, just not the best one.

This solar eclipse came at the end of a day that found me in Mt. Angel playing living room blues with my harmonica man, (Hey JR,) then up to the fourteenth floor in the guts of the city, looking both ways, measuring every stranger, and spending the early evening with a couple of international travelers.

When I say international I don’t mean just Canada and Mexico.

More like world travelers, one-time passengers on the Concord kind of world travelers.

I haven’t asked yet, but I will: “What city does this view remind you of?”

We’re looking down at the intersection of freeway traffic exiting to Front Ave. with a right lane aimed for the Hawthorne Bridge.

The black space between buildings is the Willamette River, the red reflection from OMSI, and Marquam Bridge traffic lights at the top.

The building on the right has floors so empty you can see through from one side to the other. The lights come on at night even though no one is there.

Things might feel a little lacking, but not from my vantage point.

 

PS:

Any eclipse, meteor shower, or a passing comet, is a reminder of our place in the universe.

Whether it’s a bad moon, dark moon, or a moon shadow.

 

PSS:

Did it take long to find me?
I asked the faithful light
Oh, did it take long to find me?
And are you gonna stay the night?

I am bein’ followed by a moon shadow
Moon shadow, moon shadow
Leapin’ and hoppin’ on a moon shadow
Moon shadow, moon shadow