Synaptic

Writing Objective: Write an essay in the tradition of Montainge, Orwell, and Dillard

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Tossing and turning in my bed I try to concentrate again on the image of the moon tonight. It was so vast. I haven’t gone too far in my nightly bike ride, only half an hour of idle pedaling through the darkest streets in town. The waxing moon was so enormous, shedding the most delicate silvery light—over roofs and trees, over the pavement, over my hands on the handlebars. It was a transparent night, only limited by the dim, muted silhouettes of the white houses, the upright dark contours of the branches and the leaves. A night so immeasurable, and at the same time to present, so close. And just one star in the sky. single, separate, composed under the magnificence of the moon. A couple of weeks ago the sky had been flooded with stars, the Milky Way unrepressed and exuberant with the new moon. I rode out into the country and left far behind the town lights. In the undisturbed dark of a farm in Iowa. I pinned down the Pleiades, Venus, Ariiuo, but there were so many, so many unidentified stars.

In the lounge, when I came back from the beautiful night. I found a book: King Lear. Probably someone Forgot it on the couch. I snuggled on the sofa, distractedly considering watching TV while browsing casually through the pages of the Penguin edition. “According to my bond,” I read. Isn’t it amazing, how Shakespeare used a fairy-tale setting for a treaty on human nature? “Once upon a time, there was a king who had three daughters….” The classical formula, with even a terrific storm when the king went mad—as if the well being of the king elicited a response from the sky.

Discovering the remote between two cushions. I flicked through the channels without paying much attention, till a familiar image dragged me back a couple of channels—I was right, it was Titanic. The ship was already sinking and the passengers who managed to get into the lifeboats speechlessly witnessed the tragedy. And the night was so calm and serene, the stars glistening in the remote arctic sky.

Some five years ago, I recall, in Spain—my hometown, Pahna, turned off the city lights, ready for the biggest fireworks ever seen on the bay. It was La nit de Sunt Joan, Saint John’s Eve, a bonfire in every little village and every town and every city along the Mediterranean coast. A second of awe. and then so many stars uncovered their presence. I thought, that seven better than the promised magic pyrotechnics, lint a rumor stirred the crowd, and all the faces turned to the northwest end of the bay. In the distance, something else was also uncovered by the switching off of the lights: a blazing strip of flames outlining the mountains. La Trapa, the Masantila. tainted orange demarcating the profiles so well known. The summer heat had unleashed an inferno, helped by the recent drought. The flames blurred the horizon there, but as my gaze traveled upwards the stars reappeared, composed, calm and collected. Unreceptive, unconcerned about the tragedy I hat was going on here on earth: the mountains were burning, and the sky was so cool.

I stand up and go to the window seal, and face the night. Sometimes I sleep with the curtains open. I like to see the sky. But I think again about the fire in La Trapa and of the unconcerned sky above. I hat was not a movie; maybe when the real Titanic sank the Stars were indeed as detached as when the mountains in Majorca were burning to ashes, or maybe not. The paradox lies in the fact that it doesn’t make any difference. There is no direct relation between what goes on here, to us, and what happens there, in the sky. Nature doesn’t care about us. Downpours only escort human tragedies in fairy tales—poor, poor King Lear without a kingdom, without a crown.

I look through the window. Now it definitely seems it’s going to rain. One of my housemates said so as she came into the lounge, smiling, carrying with her a gust of fresh night air as she closed the front door. She talked excitedly, ceaselessly, telling me where she had been, what she had done. Then she displayed her newly purchased tee shirt (the word “Turtle” and a drawing of the smiling animal in question.). Isn’t it lovely? It was a bit expensive, yes, but part of the money goes to the organization that prevents the extinction of these and oilier animals. There was plenty of choice of tee shins, you see, turtles and pumas, rhinoceros. Yes, yes… Well, it – getting late, I have to go to bed, so—good night. But in my room I sat by the window, and stared again at the sky. All these “Save-the-Whale-” proceedings, what for? Yes, to soothe the conscience, but how? We pay a fee. and the turtles on some islands in the Pacific get some more days before being sold for their shells or their meat or both or whatever. The human race is capable of selling everything—fair enough, then. if we try to care a little bit more about what we are selling. about what we are destroying and feel so guilty for.

But then—a long, long time ago. there were dinosaurs. That was before Kings ruled the earth, even before dragons first ran off in the skies. Yes, dinosaurs were here before the human race, and they disappeared before the human race showed any sign of waking up. We didn’t play any part in the disappearance of such animals. However, we are playing an undeniable part in the tragic disappearance of turtles, lions, whales, that’s true. Our great grandchildren will have to look in an archive see what one of these animals looked like. And there is the tragedy: we assume, with our total and complete responsibility, that we are above nature. We are so important. There is something grand about being responsible for such a loss.

Magnanimously, we lament it beforehand — so sure we are that it is our fault, that we will go on while they won’t. And it’s true, we are the ones killing rhinoceros and turtles, but if we were not here they would probably end up disappearing all the same. Though it seems impossible to really conceive our world without us, as it seems hard to conceive that the world will go on, despite the human abuse of it — we will also disappear.

Above, the sky goes on, impassive. Sometimes it’s clear, sometimes it rains; sometimes there is a drought, sometimes there is an inundation. And it has nothing to do with human designs, nor with human behavior: it happens regardless of our presence on earth. Fairy tales are just fairy tales, even King Lear. We are unimportant to the sky above our heads. What does the sky care about a madman defying its power, be it a King or a beggar? It doesn’t care. If by any chance the stars can be taking any notice of what is going on down here., they probably are not curious about watching what happens to these uninteresting, industrious creatures who build intricate structures — that lately have even managed to go outside the plane. (Sheeew, and the stars see how a space ship travels to the moon. Sheeew, and it goes back to the Earth. And then, silence).

I go back to the lounge to see if the book is still there, but it’s gone. I’m trying to sleep, and the sound of the rain is not soothing tonight. There’slight in Stephanie’s room. She seemed so happy with her tee shirt. Maybe I too should buy one. I knock on her door and ask if she remembers seeing any tee shirts with a white elephant drawn on it. She frowns. Aren’t they already extinct? Yes, I think, and twirl my hair. But, anyway, the money will help the other animals all the same…?