Raison d'être

Walking home last night, she pointed to the sky and sang faintly, “The moon is like a boat, my love.”  She looked at me, giggled and held my hand tightly. I intoned softly what was left of the song. 

...

Of lemon peel afloat, my love

And with a sail of gauze, my love.

She seems to slightly pause

Upon her silent way,

All on her silent way.

I see her pearly decks, my love

Set in with twinkling specks, my love.

I see her pearly mast, my love

Far from her seashell past.

And gently does she sway

All on her starry way.

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My urban existence has never been reminded with unreserved sadness until I heard Donovan's Voyage of the Moon once more. The song does not sound excruciatingly forlorn but somehow sends a feeling of abandonment, a sense of dislodgment. What was supposedly a utopian pining seems like a sore memory of a distant age.

“Oh the drama,” she says, “you are and forever will be a small-town boy.”

-----

I took out the garbage, stood in the sidewalk and regarded the roaring street hung for miles with fierce electric fire, which to Somerset were hostile and menacing. The city is not merely a concrete jungle but a human zoo, says Desmond. To Jean Jacques, an abyss.

There are worse places.

And miles of nicer ones.

-----

“Wash up.”

“Oh I’m fine. The trash was bagged well.”

“And suit up.”

“What for?”

“We’re goin’ out.”

-----

And there will come a time, my love,

O may it be in mine, my love,

When men will proudly rise, my love,

And board to sail the skies.

Moonships from all the spheres,

Moonships from all the spheres.

And on some distant sand, my love,

The ships will gently land, my love.

Fair folk will meet them there, my love,

With golden flowing hair

And great will be their joy,

And great will be their joy.

The moon is like a boat, my love,

Of lemon peel afloat, my love,

And with a sail of gauze, my love,

She seems to slightly pause.

-----

Hang in there.