My commute for work is so scenic that when the season’s slight lengthening of days touches it with sunlight a worn creation filmstrip is run through my head. The early days of the earth’s wobble slants the sun’s rays into improbable color patterns. This morning I see reds and purples blending into the day’s choice of pastel blue. The moon is quite nearly full, and bright with detail.
The commute’s path around the recently dried lakebed saw the moon popping out from threadbare portions of a pockmarked cloudbank. The translucent portions of the sky would glow with exertion as they failed in blotting out the moonlight. Thicker portions of the cloud would permit the sky to pretend that it was night. Then, after a bend in the road or a wind in the sky, the moon would jump out through a hole in the cloud. Just before I became hypnotized by the headlight’s tunnel the full force of the moonlight would send actual shadows scurrying across the road in front of me. I imagined hearing the “thump-thump” as I ran them over.
Last weekend I was shoehorned into a conversation about Kim Kardashian’s boob job. Someplace in the conversation, after I had suggested that the time a woman spends basking in the attention of someone who examines her every curve and fault for comfort and familiarity is better invested than those spent under a knife, I was told that I could not appreciate beauty due to my atheism.
“Everything to you is ‘just’ science” I was told.
So this morning I ‘just’ surfed the electromagnetic wave-front of my planet’s mad dash through the galaxy. Moonlight glinted from my teeth as I ‘just’ smiled at the imperceptibly waning moon. Spring taunted me from ‘just’ south of the equator; promising warm days of relaxed company.
Perhaps I cannot appreciate beauty, but this may not be as unfortunate as it sounds on first blush. A tactile appreciation as a woman unfurls her beauty to the gentle exploration of my caress may, by definition, be unknowable to me. The sensation I can detect pulsing from her fresh-kissed lips and cheek is simple warmth reduced to some message-less Morse-code of pulse. My own pulse is ‘just’ an anomaly hinting at coronary blockage. If I think I am experiencing beauty it must be a simple delusion; words describing it are just a confusion of empty sounds. If I speak of my delusion in a whisper, just close enough to her ear that my words drip with the humidity of passion, there is a chance that she might harvest another reason to appreciate her own beauty. So at least I can try to be of service to others; despite my handicap.
Shouldn’t we all try and help the other members of our species?