Next week a crazy super blood moon is set to rise, somewhere around January 31, and I’m not sure we can handle it. As little faith as I put in such astrological matters, there’s always been something believable about the moon and the way it fosters brief moments of lunacy. When it gets full, insane things seem to happen, especially if you’re unaware of its pull. During such times I find it best to lay low, stay subdued, and refrain from causing a commotion. Maybe it’s all bullshit, but it can’t hurt to take a couple of preemptive precautions, and in the middle of winter it’s good to be quiet and still regardless of the reason.
Instead of putting on a show, I’ll stand back and watch it rise. The moon is magnificent and magical, as you can see here as it hovers over Albany in these early-morning photos. It has been the guide and the ruin of certain men and women, the conjuror of all sorts of happy and sorrowful madness, and the watcher in the night. It peeks, preens and poses in all kinds of delightful variety. Shy and remote some nights, boldly burning red and pink on others. It dances or demurs, depending on the mood and the atmosphere. Most of all, it demands notice as it makes its way across the sky.
