Fuck a Blue Moon

According to a few news outlets and astrology-obsessed people on my Instagram, there was supposed to be a super blue moon radiating through the sky last night. Simply a full moon illuminated by a cold-blue halo. A natural occurrence every 20 years or so. I live in close proximity to the water, so I figured I’d take advantage and walk down to the shore come twilight. Now of course, when I got down there, I didn’t see jack-shit. No blue cosmos, no moon at all, even.

What I did see, however, was the sunset. I can’t attest to the rest of the world. But in my eyes, for all the city’s smog and pollution, there’s nothing as beautiful and captivating as watching the blood-red, tangerine texture of the sun sink beneath the Manhattan skyline. Last night was particularly extravagant. A goosebump-inducing blend of blue, purple and orange lighting up the western sky like a portal to heaven. It was like a 15th century oil painting. An extinct piece of imagination brought to life by mother nature.

Fuck a blue moon. Wasn’t even that interested in the first place. But the interlude between light and darkness on a clear summer night? That’s something worth living and dying for. That may sound like an over-exaggeration. Yet for me, it’s proven true throughout my entire life. Especially during these past 10 years, when dark days developed a habit of spiraling towards the specter of death. To put it simply, sunsets are a sign of hope for me.

When I was away in prison, the meat and potatoes of my release during our daily 1-hour recreation was to hit the pull-up bar then run laps around the yard until I calculated I’d done at least 2 miles. Though during the winter, when it got dark out early, I’d go outside with the sole purpose of sitting back against the concrete and watching the sun disappear. You have to appreciate the fact that in a place as hopeless and depressing as a penitentiary, it’s the simplest things that are conducive to survival. Headaches and annoyances like watching your back, minding your business, always being ready to fight and, for the love of God, avoiding gambling are all second-nature traits that inmates learn quickly and which go without saying. The purpose of the laws of the jungle are to maintain order amongst the animals. Yet as far as survival and avoiding self-destruction, it’s the things that bring you out of yourself that keep you going.

I’d be in the yard, sitting on the pavement, layered up in sweatshirts and thermals to keep me warm in the frigid temperatures, looking up. The shot callers and bangers would play basketball back-to-back religiously, roaring and screaming and sometimes flat-out fist-fighting, all in the name of the game. Some of the more shady cats would huddle up in the corners, plotting on who their next victim would be (sometimes they would just jump you. Other times they’d drag you in your cell and give you a blanket party with rock-filled socks. And then, depending on what you did, they’d hit you with a good old-fashioned shank to the kidneys). Then there were the junkies who’d walk around fishing until they found someone to sell them dope or Suboxone.

And yet, with all the competition and testosterone and sinister intentions and desperation for fixes taking place in the background, I’d just be sitting down, zoning out, looking up at the sky. I’d see a bird, sometimes solo, sometimes a whole flock, in awe of the absolute freedom that comes with the ability to fly. Where were they flying? Were they going south for warmer weather? And if so, where? I’d see a plane in the distance, sometimes descending, mostly ascending, since there was an airport not too far from the jail. Where were they taking off to? Was it a quick trip to Boston? Or was it an exotic venture to Bali? The passengers on board—were they traveling for business? For pleasure? For a death in the family? What about that lonely shining star popping up in the dusk? It could be Jupiter or Saturn. But at that time of year, I’m pretty sure it was Venus. And what exactly was going on over there, on our neighboring planet? Were there extraterrestrials mingling and chatting in 800-degree weather, oblivious to the volcanoes and gas and acid rain scorching the landscape?

I’d wonder. I’d really wonder. Why? Because no matter how miserable a place I was in, no matter what madness awaited me or the man next to me or the CO on duty inside the cell block, eventually the day would come when I’d finish my sentence and be released. The day would come when I’d be on that plane, flying to Rome or Ibiza. The moment would come when I’d walk out those gates, spread my arms like those birds spread their wings, basking in the totality of freedom after spending so much time sulking in the confines of detention. And it was the theater of the setting sun that would remind me of what was possible. It was the evening redness in the west that filled me with hope.

When I was homeless and living in my car, I still had my pen and my notebook. When I lost my right eye, I still had my left eye. When I was at the top, knowing full well I was one wrong move away from falling from grace, I knew in my heart my fate was written in the stars, published by a setting sun. And when I was at the bottom, it was the sunset that reminded me when one door closes, another one will soon open. 

In this world I’d created for myself in which euphoria, stimulation and instant gratification were the priorities, it was always the rise and fall of the sun that saved me.