Back in Germany, Eberhard was like a floor warden in his vest he was so anal about my mom burning candles in the house. The place is 500 years old and all wood, there is that, and because it gets so comfortable with the glow and the wine you kind of lose track of details (which is kind of the point)—I found myself trying to recreate that tonight in our den with the Tiffany lamps, the moon plumping up, a scented Yankee candle I bought on sale, some Bach cello concerto—everything I could do to comfort myself from the reality of reality TV, that’s no reality for me. That feeling many probably have they just want to go somewhere and hide.

The moon is on her side tonight, has that look of the subject in The Scream, some universal pain and isolation so many of us feel that goes unseen, that’s ours to hold, to swallow…or is it just the same as so many other subjects, the moon? We only see ourselves in it as just another mirror, and can’t see past our own reflection.

Categories: musings

Tags: election 2016, Memoir, moon poetry, prose, The Scream, travel, William Pearse writer