45s on 33 – #99: “Sunday Morning Coming Down”

When looking at this planet we owned the hell out of, it’s impossible to imagine another creature being quite equal in terms of maddening monkey mindframe. And even when you look to the night sky, with what we’ve know about our solar system from shooting our robot rockets into space (monkeys included sometimes), it seems like we are also the greatest conquistadores of overly complicated life on all these eight or nine or however many the planets the eggheads have determined are actual planets by their overly complicated criteria at this point. We fucking rule.

But look, I am a realist, and when you are sitting there staring up into a clearest of clear night skies, seeing all those stars, as I often do down in my field near the magic jukebox, because it dips low on our property and gives the celestial night’s domed appearance extra dome, I don’t know, it seems simple and idiotic to assume we are the only ones like us, who can do these things we do which we think (with our brains) makes us so amazing and unique. If each star is a sun and each sun an anchor to multitude of planetary bodies, law of averages says there’s other species existing out there doing what we do, easily, and perhaps having gone up and over that. I mean, when you say it all out like that it doesn’t seem that far-fetched, and seems kind of like some dumbass kid telling you some scientific fact they learned in 2nd grade as if nobody else in the universe had ever learned that. Feels like it should be accepted common knowledge. But it’s not, apparently, probably since it’s not apparent.

Thus all this was in my mind after a Saturday night sitting in the field, staring at the stars, contemplating the insignificance of all I worry over as important and necessary and immediate. I am six years sober, but the Saturday night/Sunday morning 69 of debauchery and spiritual awakening still tends to happen. There’s probably something innately chemical about that, not just in the substances we take for those Saturday night degenerate epiphanies before Sunday morning spiritual savings. Something in our molecular structure must make those broken weekend nights without work the next morning extra-wild, and make those broken weekend mornings without work that day extra-sacred. I wonder if we lacked the structured gridlock of finance and “work” and every day was more attuned to basic survival, in more native ways, would we be more sacred and profane all at once? Can’t say.

But I had been contemplating that under the influence of massive star explosion on a cool night, early season lightning bugs rising out the uncut grasses, occasional human manufactured car machines thundering by, and just wondering, until very late, so late that I left a notebook of idle numbers (I jot numbers down in a composition book, no real reason for it, nor known pattern, but I figure it’ll become clear to me at some point later in life maybe; and if not, fuck it, somebody’s gonna think I was writing strange indecipherable coded number poems when they find it after I’m dead) down in the field.

So on this Sunday morning, coming down into the field, for the first time I saw the source of what my daughter had heard when she was talking as part of her game. It was a glowing orb, which I came to call a Heart Star, almost immediately. As I was walking down, the Heart Star orb was floating from the broken jukebox over to my stack of white trash quartz rocks and then hovering between, all while floating, fairy-like to put it in terms our human minds would understand. I stopped, and felt it had seen me see it, but I started walking slowly towards it, kind of how you’d approach a baby deer if trying to get a closer look, without scaring it, though I had not informational pre-conceptions as to how a glowing orb floating in the Sunday morning daylight would react to me.