Subject: You be the Moth
Imagine this. You are a moth. One of the furry moths with lace-delicate wings and a sensitive, fluttering proboscis. Your nearly weightless body feels the caress of the moon’s gravitational pull and even though your brain is the size of a few grains of sand you understand that this is love. It is the moon’s love that unfurls your proboscis toward the night-blooming orchid, who is, of course, also in love with the moon. It offers you its nectar because the moon cannot take it, and you drink it because the moon is too far away for you to drink.
Everyone thinks you love lamps. They think passion draws you toward the false moons, although you could never mistake their unnatural glow for the enveloping luminescence of the truth. You beat your fragile wings, too easily singed, in fury against the false light. Fury, that the streetlights dare impede the moon’s sovereignity. You do not love lamp. Would you but beat those soft gray wings hard enough, you’d extinguish all the lightbulbs in the world and give the night back to your love, the moon. Incandescent burns leave you unable to fly true, but every wobbling spiral as you flutter on is a cursive “I love you.”
You are softer than anything.
I wanted you to be a moth so I could invite you in closer. You (everyone) are so far away now, and I thought it might be nice to have you on my shoulder for an evening. Now I realize my mistake. The lights in my room are dimmed, but it would not be enough for you. I had, at first, thought too much about sharing my own experience, and not enough about what yours would be.
What is there to say about my life here? The computer glow is too bright. I hoped that once you, the moth, were close enough, your perfectly sensitive hairs would interpret the sentiments and thoughts that I am too inarticulate to share. I am, as much as anyone can be, well acquainted with language. And even so it all feels far too crude to even hope to communicate the exactness of a moment or a feeling. German, for all the expressiveness of its nouns, cannot capture the gestalt: a medieval remix of What is Love plays in the background, I gaze out the window at the gentle glow of my neighbor’s lamp—suddenly neighbor appears, dancing wildly in the dim light uninhibited—I am overcome by feeling.
Even if I could sum up every possible detail of my current experience, I doubt it would evoke within you the same feelings I am having now. The closest I can get is to ask you to be the moth. You are the moth and you love the moon, and the moon is farther away than anything your miniscule brain can comprehend. It doesn’t matter though, because your body is made of electric fur that vibrates from the moon’s invisible touch. Maybe, just maybe, if I can be myself at this exact moment, feeling the exact things I am feeling right now, and you can let yourself be that moth, we have a chance of connecting and understanding each other even though language is so unbelievably vulgar compared to the cosmic splendor we want to share. We want to give each other moon, but everytime we try, all we have is lamp.
Ask A Gecko
Dear Lemonfritz, Is it possible to have a casual relationship during a pandemic? It seems like there’s only two options - courting from afar, and moving in together. Asking someone to cross the germ barrier with you might as well be a marriage proposal, but I just wanna make out!
Geckos were courting from afar long before a deadly virus swept the human world. Lemonfritz knows a thing or two about this practice, because a potential mate might just as well bite off a few toes instead. Why not take your time, and move into each engagement with care and appropriate caution?
Another thing the gecko knows—a tryst is done when it is done. Although he has been cautious, approached slowly and with care, he does not mistake trust for commitment or safety for a relationship. Although you may be grateful to leave with all your toes intact, this is not a debt. You do not have to share your den with everything that does not harm you.