We shall not cease from exploring
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

Thursday, January 7, 2010

suns and moms

We are having discussions about the telescope, about the white orb he spotted round and flat and smooth hanging over the neighbor's hay field. Happy to be out of the city again to the land of dark and no streetlights, the sudden and rare blare of a car's headlights something to notice, get up from the chair and peer at from behind the curtains. It must be one of earf's suns he insisted, me insisting back earth, one of those who's-on-first replays as he said again earf then me, equally insistent but louder because I am the mom: the all-knowing role somehow already losing its traction as the slope of his awareness has steepened when I apparently, was not looking. If he won't believe what I say I guess I can just say it louder, the bereft logic of speaking to one who cannot hear us, mute against the reality that as he grows he does so out of shouting distance. Maybe Jupiter because it is so big, it's a planet and then, because I realized uh, I don't really know anything about astronomy and to speak so boldly and authoritatively about what I do not know is dangerous territory: he follows Star Wars after all, and subscribes to National Geographic, seems inclined to sponge every iota of information whirling in the lego-strewn galaxy of his 9 year-old existence. Does earth have more than one sun?

He did not look at me or answer but hunched to his work at the scope, at arranging the site just so, re-adjusting the tripod. I know what he is thinking, that anyone who would give credence to an astronomy book by the guy who wrote about Curious George can not know what she is talking about, the skepticism on his face when I showed him the star charts, the brilliant way H.A. Rey drew his lines to delineate the beings and creatures described by the constellation's names. I showed him the herdsman with his pipe, Orion and his belt, club, and shield (got a good reaction from that one), the twins.

Too many trees was the pronouncement, we'll need to move to a better location, as if of course, it is all about his nightly quest, the look of resignation when I reminded him we had planned to read another chapter about Hector the humblebug. While I frittered the final moments of my evening on email he designed the simple cone he plans to invent to send up to space on a saddle-light which will capture the sunlight better than those flat rectangular solar panels, which have to be hooked into the power grid but that is expensive and slow, and his sun cone will have mirrors inside which will intensify the light and because it is in space can capture the sun all the time, or whichever sun it is aimed at. But it all depends on the light years, evidently, or so I was told, in the loud firm voice of the all-knowing.

And just where was Galileo's mother when all that talk of heresy and Rome coming down and his books burned and thus illuminating the night sky, albeit not his fellow man's minds? why, she was probably folding his socks, planning his lunch for the next day, tidying up the wet towels from the bath. Did she get up at night when the tossing was too much, the blind moon slanting its full gibbous self in a whiteout obscuring the stars, the sky, the heavens, the new loves of her son? Did she cry and wail and plead against being forsaken and lost to a sun, a star, to Io? Even Draco Malfoy's mother Narcissa whimpered but he is just a boy. I picture this: Now Galilieo, settle down. Find a good job, you are smart, so smart, but stars! and planets!

The diagram of the sun cone includes a marketplace of gem colored fruits and vegetables, isn't it cute? he asks me, they will need a place to shop! They, the Geonosians, will be there evidently, no longer turning out battle droids for George Lucas but on to more generous, universe-worthy pursuits: solar power harvesting. Go my little Galileo, go! we need your brilliant, peaceful, beautiful mind.


 
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A Field Guide to Drowning by Mackenzie Rivers is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.