I published this last year in another space, but a full moon discussion over dinner at the home of some friends reminded me of this piece, so I will serve it up here.



Moonshine and Madness

Many of my subscribers have written recently to suggest that I should not write, in this aMusements column, about drinking beer; so, in the following article, in deference to their sensitivities, I avoid the mention of beer all together.

There was a full moon two days back on November 26th. I checked the calendar. There will be another on December 26th. That is 30 days apart. " What the hell happened to the 28 day lunar cycle??" I thought as I sipped my rum and looked at the moon with my binoculars a couple of nights back. So, of course, I Googled a bit to see if there was an explanation. I found this one...

The orbital period of the moon from perigee to apogee and back to perigee is called the anomalistic month. The period of the moon's phases, that is the motion of the moon with respect to the sun, is called the synodic month. The ellipticity of the moon's orbit also causes the duration of a half-lunation to depend on where in the elliptical orbit it begins and so, effects the age of the full moon.

The average duration of the anomalistic month is approximately 27.554549 days; while the average duration of the synodic month is approximately 29.530588 days.

The fumocy is slightly more than 14 synodic months and slightly less than 15 anomalistic months. Its significance is that when you start with a large full moon at the perigee, then subsequent full moons will appear ever later after the passage of the perigee. After 1 fumocy, the accumulated difference between the number of completed anomalistic months and the number of completed synodic months is exactly one.

" Hmm," I thought. " I'd better have another rum." So, I did; and, as I stared in marvel at that floating orb, so beautifully reflecting the light of the sun, I reflected some more on what I had read. I saw some sense to it. Where in the ellipse the moon was when it was full one night might determine the time span to the next full moon. Maybe. There had to be more to it. I sipped my rum and I pondered the mystery. An hour later, I was no more enlightened. I was, however, a little bit buzzed; and it was this dual intoxication of moonlight and moonshine that lead me to the conclusion that, despite any pretense to the contrary, I don't know shinola from synodic.

I have learned that the anomalistic moon cycle is close to 28 days, but that the synodic, or full moon, cycle is about 29.5 days. Now I am left to wonder if anomalistic is synchronistic or synonym-istic with animalistic and that, perhaps that might explain werewolves, menstrual cycles and the periodic madness of imbibing the demon rum.

The degree of my ignorance is staggering I realized as I made my way to bed. It is lunacy to pretend otherwise; but how else can I make it through the days of my life, except that I imagine I know a thing or two about the moon and why it does what it does every 28 or 29.5 nights or so.

By the way, sugar cane is traditionally cut on full moon days to maximize the yield of juice. Cut the cane on a full moon day and reap more juice to make more rum. That's a good thing since people seem to drink more rum on full moon nights. I, of course, will never touch the stuff again, full moon or not. Well, perhaps on a blue moon, which happens, on average, every 19 months; although I am not exactly sure whether that is anomalistic or synodic months.

A few days ago, I was sitting in the departures lounge in the Simon Bolivar airport at Caracas, awaiting my flight connection to Trinidad, with my laptop open on my lap, writing material for a new seminar presentation. I was in the groove, totally focused, unaware of the activity around me.

I glanced up from my screen. The waiting area was empty. Where was everybody else that was here also awaiting the flight? I looked back at my screen and checked the clock. 6:45. Ok. Time enough to catch my 7:30 flight; but maybe I had missed some announcement. Maybe I should get to the gate. As I was shutting down Windows, it occurred to me. Time zones. It was actually 7:45 DUH!!

No wonder everyone was gone. Had I missed my flight? I rushed to the gate. There was my crowd and it was busy creating pandemonium. I waded in. What fun. Absolute chaos. I stood there tuning in to the Spanish. Ah-ha. The flight is delayed. No exact time for departure is able to be set. It seems we are to fly on a brand new plane and the certification has not been stamped by the relevant authority.

Of course people are upset. They are concerned about missing connections. I make my way over to one of the reps and ask, "So, does this mean I have time for a sandwich and a beer?"

"Oh yes, plenty of time. It looks like about a 3 hour delay."

"Cool," I reply, "Thanks. That is great news." My earlier distraction had not caused me to miss my flight and for that, I am grateful.

"Hang on a minute," she says and gives me a coupon for $10 to pay for my beer and another one for $50 for a discount on my next flight.

"Hey, that's nice of you," I answer. "Thanks so much."

"No", she says, "thank you; almost everyone else is so upset and they get nasty to me as if it is my fault their flight is delayed."

A lady pushes in beside me, "If I miss my connection and my appointment tomorrow morning, I am going to sue the airline. I don't believe all this crap about new planes and such."

"Yes, ma'am, here is the complaint form. If you fill it out, I will personally see it gets to the right person." answers the rep, "and here is a $50 discount coupon for your next flight."

No beer coupon for her.

The flight leaves at 10 pm. 2.5 hours late. The plane is so new, you can still smell the glue they used to stick down the carpet. No one else has ever sat in this seat I occupy. How cool is that. The flight attendant offers me a free beer. I doze off and wake when the plane is landing an hour later.

Shortly after midnight, I am sitting in the lobby of my hotel in Trinidad, sipping a cold beer, chatting with the night duty clerk, when this same angry lady shows up.

"Good evening ma'am," greats the clerk.

"I need a cheap room and a wake up call," she answers. The clerk gets her registered and gives her a room key, organizes the wake up call. Never once does she say thank you.

"Hi," I interject, "we were on the same flight. I see you missed your connection. I hope it all works out for you."

"No, my connection is in the morning to Dominica." she answers, "damn airlines. I hope that one is on time at least."

"Oh," I say, "we are on the same flight again in the morning. Do you want to share a taxi?"

"No," she answers, "I'll make my own way. I've already booked a taxi."

"Ok, buy you a beer then, a night cap?" I ask her. Maybe I can cheer her up some, change her attitude?

"No!" she turns away and goes to her room, without saying another word to me or the hotel clerk.

Next morning, the night clerk drops me off at the airport. I check in with the airline and get myself a coffee. I am sitting there enjoying it when she goes by. "Good morning," I say, "How are you today?"

"Damn taxi was late," she answers without slowing down. Of course, there is a line up at the LIAT counter by then. Oh well. Life's a bitch, ain't it.

I went to the beach the other day. Not an unusual event in and of itself. I go to the beach every second or third day. What was unusual about this particular visit was that I stumbled across a small tear in the fabric of reality. Literally stumbled. Here is what happened; I'll leave it to you to decide what it means and how to classify it.

I was strolling down the beach, thinking about what to talk about during my presentation at an upcoming Magnetic Thinking seminar in Costa Rica, when I stubbed my toe and stumbled, falling to my hands and knees in the sand. I'd had my head in the clouds; now I was definitely back on the ground. Ouch.

With some degree of annoyance (ok, I'll admit to uttering some profanity), I got back to my feet and turned to see what had caused my fall.

Well, it was a yellow knot. Boats occasionally lose lines and they often get washed up on shore. I've been out on boats where such escaped lines had gotten tangled in the propeller. That really sucks. This one had gotten buried in the sand on my beach and this protruding knot was the source of my jolting discomfort.

Now, I could have simply gone on with my walk; but I didn't. Instead, in my annoyance, I decided to pull this rope out of the sand. I can't say what I intended to do with it once I got it free from the sand. I wasn't entirely of sound mind at this point.

After digging and pulling for a few minutes, I had about six feet of line freed. Ropes are made of entwined strands and as I was pulling with all my might, one of these strings snapped and slapped me in the face. I let go abruptly and ended up sitting on my butt in the sand. Needless to say, I had a few more choice expletives to offer in response.

Most people would have given up at this point; (it is probably the wise choice) but I have a stubborn streak in me. I renewed my assault, digging and pulling. After several minutes of this, I had freed about twenty feet of line; and, I had also built up quite a sweat and so I stopped to catch my breath. I sat down on the sand, this time on purpose, and a degree of reason and objectivity returned. Just a degree... enough to see how funny and futile this effort was; not enough to forget the damned rope and continue my walk.

I played with the rope in my hands, examining it. It was a standard, five-strand, braided 5/8 inch, yellow mooring line, almost as common in these parts as the sand I was sitting on. As I mentioned, one of these strands had snapped. This strand itself was composed of numerous smaller strings or filaments. I rubbed this strand between my thumb and forefinger, loosening the weave of these smaller filaments. I separated one of these filaments. Please don't ask why I was doing this. I don't know. I was just mussing about.

This filament or mini-string was about twice as thick as a human hair. I stretched it tight, holding the broken end in my teeth and the other still entwined end in my left hand and plucked it. "Twang" sounded a small but distinct note. Cool. I did it again. "Twong" it sounded.

"Watcha doin?" a small voice queried.

Startled out of my reverie, I turned to stare into the amazingly beautiful face of a dreadlocked child. Four, maybe five years old. I was sitting. He was standing and we were eye to eye. He smiled.

"Playing'" I answered, smiling back.

"Do again," he commanded.

I grabbed the filament, bit down on the end and plucked. Everything shimmered. The boy giggled and shook his head. The beads braided into his dreadlocked tresses rattled. I plucked. "Twong!!" Again the world shimmered. Again, the beads rattled. Half a dozen times, we played this improvised beach harmony.

And then it came to me... I would talk about Superstrings, super-symmetry and the symphony of thoughts that create our reality.

"Fun," said my little friend.

"Yes, it is" I agreed.

My little messenger ran off down the beach. I got up and walked into the sea to float on my back, stare at the sky and work out the thread of my talk.

__________________________________

Later, driving home, Steve Marriot of Small Faces singing Itchycoo Park reverberated in my mind...

Over bridge of sighs,
to rest my eyes in shades of green
under dreaming spires
to Itchycoo Park. That's where I've been.
(What did you do there?)
I got high...
(What did you feel there?)
Well, I cried...
(But why the tears then?)
Tell you why...

It's all so beautiful!
It's all too beautiful!

I'll tell you what I'll do.
(What will you do?)
I'd like to go there now with you,
you can miss out school.
(Won't that be cool?)
Why go to hear the words of fools?
(What did you do there?)
I got high...
(What did you touch there?)
I touched the sky...
(But why the tears then?)
I'll tell you why...

It's all too beautiful!
It's all so beautiful!

I feel inclined to blow my mind,
get hung up, feed the ducks with a bun.
They all come out to groove about
be nice and have fun in the sun.

(What did you do there?)
I got high...
(What did you touch there?)
I touched the sky...
(But why the tears then?)
Tell you why...

(It's all too beautiful!)
It's all so beautiful.
(It's all too beautiful!)

As I am wont to do, I was in the bar at the SunSail marina some days ago watching the sunset, sipping a cold Hairoun, thinking about what a glorious adventure life is when you allow it to be, when a total stranger came up to me and asked, "Would you please tell me what direction I am facing?"

I blinked. This is surely, I thought, a surreal moment; not a real question, but an angel's message for me.

"Well, I am facing the sunset," I answered, "so it is my best guess that direction is called West on this planet. On a larger scale, I suppose I am staring down the gravity well of old Sol."

"Huh... oh yeah; silly of me," he replied, with a touch of an embarrassed smile.

"No, not at all," I replied, "I thank you for the question. It reminded me to be aware of what direction I am facing."

"And that is?" he queried. Now I knew for certain he was an angel, perhaps disguised as some poor holiday sailor who was about to go out on a rental not knowing anything about sextants or pole stars, but an angel nevertheless.

"If", I explained, more to myself than to him, "I am standing in the present, I can face into the past or into the future. The direction I face is my choice, isn't it?"

"How's the local beer?" He replied. Maybe he thought I had had a few. Maybe he was just changing the subject. Maybe he was just thirsty. Maybe he had more wisdom to offer me. It mattered not.

"Pretty good," I answered, " Can I buy you one? It is the least I can do."

"Two Hairoun please," I told the barkeep. "Where you are from?" I really wanted to hear this answer.

"Los Angeles," he said, without even a hint of irony in his eyes.

"I figured it would be something like that," I said. "Long way from home then. Here to do some sailing?"

"No, I've come to visit some friends in Mustique. That's south of here, isn't it?"

"Yes, that way," I pointed, "you could see it if we were on that point out there, instead of in this bar."

"This beer is good." he said.

"Yes, it surely is," I replied. "My name is Leslie. I'm happy to meet you."

"Michael," he said, "how are you?" sticking out his hand. We shook.

"Blessed," I answered, "and you?"

"Yeah, I am feeling pretty good too. You live here?"

"Yes. I do."

"Good place to live," he said.

"Yeah man, it is," I smiled.

God, life is such a pisser.

Been away for a while. Lots going on in my life. New beginnings and some endings.

2006 has come in with a big bang and my universe is expanding in potential.

Life is such a miracle. Full of contrasts. Full of surprises. I am constantly amazed by the wonder of it all.

I'll be back soon to update you on some of the fun and funny things going on in my life.

In the meantime, here's a cool way to up your vibratory levels.