The man on the moon

has much to explain........ Loony tunes. Blood lust. Constant tides. Werewolves. Romance. The disappearance of the address bar from my explorer window.

My grandmother used to have this hideously pink book, referred to as the Ponjika, an annual almanack, a redoubtable crystal ball. She never did anything without referring to it's auspices - days to travel, get married, get a haircut..... the phases of the moon. I remember scoffing at her unshakable reliance, but then again, I was young and foolish. The brilliant perfect half circle makes my lips curve, and then falter as I realise I might be getting sentimental over a reflected street light. The thought propels me to my feet and the window, my eyes confirming the wonder, as my breath mists up the glass. A perfect half. Like it was sliced. With confidence and assurance. I can't take my eyes off it, and my mind meanders to urban legend and myths surrounding her.

A powerful force in ancient times, worshipped and revered. Forever linked to our unconscious, and some say, our feminine side. Death, re-birth, crops and seasons, fertility, ever changing, ever constant. Selene, sister of Helios. Moon and sun. Obliterated by the power of the sun, but all the more beguiling for it. Dominant in her submissiveness.

The unexpected radiance distracts me and makes me think of comets. Their ability to give life; and to take life. Till Istanbul, my lasting memory of a comet is being huddled in Sachin's jeep racing down the highway, trying to outrun the belting rain blotting out the road in front of us. Needless to say, the only sighting of Hale-Bopp to be had that night was in the most appalling pj's. But that was before I got called one. A new perspective, one of consequence and not imagery. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes terrifying. Transient, yet possibly permanent. Creating and destroying.