Whiskey Bent

Up

Wednesday night, about midnight. My friends and I walk the streets of Missoula as we usually do on the hump day: buzzed. Silent, all of us absorbed in our own inebriated reflection, the sidewalks and streets shed their daylight familiarity. Homes, bright and pleasant in the sunlight now seem a bit foreboding. Living rooms sit pale and empty. We trek past houses with dining tables that, a few hours ago, were probably bustling with food and conversation, or maybe they’re always empty. The stillness is foreign. The only sounds at this hour are the thumps and stumbles of our shoes against pavement. While families and responsible students sleep, we walk. I look at the sky; the stars glimmer timidly through the atmosphere.

“I’m hammered,” a friend points out.

We respond with groans and laughs, now and again exclaiming in anticipation the comfort and warmth of our beds. I look at the sky again.

Clouds meander east, exposing a dark blue expanse that frames Mt. Sentinel and the hills around her. An enormous patch of deep azure beckons us towards sleep, glittered with tinsel from fireballs millions of miles from here.

“Damn,” I say, “look at the stars.”

For some reason, no one responds; they probably didn’t hear me. They could be ignoring me, sensing some drunken pontification on an environmental crisis, our police state. We ignore each other for the most part on the walk back, content with ourselves. Journeying far above us, a bright lunar landscape reflects off a front door window.

* * * *

I owned a telescope once. I actually still have it; it sits alone in my brother’s room back home in Idaho. My brother and I used it only a few times, though I feel we never actually experienced its full potential. The lenses, knobs, and directions discouraged me from devoting too much time to optical space exploration. Never a fan of complicated, mechanical procedures, I was the type of kid who would buy a LEGO set, beg my twin to help me, let him finish it and play with the finished product later. The telescope, a sleek, blue tubular thing, now rests dusty and unused, like an old astronaut who never got the chance to make a shuttle flight.

I do have one memorable moment with the scope. It must have been spring or summer. The night was warm; we wouldn’t have had the initiative to take it out in the cold. Dad did his best but it wasn’t tuned properly and allowed us only a mediocre view of the moon and its surface. I eagerly peered through the eyepiece, looking at the moon for a while before shifting to the rest of space, panning around the Universe for anything, a snorkeler in a dark, infinite ocean. The experience failed to instill in me any strong yearning for further cosmic exploration.

* * * *

In Zen meditation, posture is crucial. In the book “Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind,” a classic of zen literature, Shunryu Suzuki instructs that, when meditating, “you should pull your chin in. When your chin is tilted up, you have no strength in your posture; you are probably dreaming.” He’s probably right.

Tilting my pupils upward, stretching our necks back a bit to gaze, these actions do evoke a sort of transcendence, maybe it is a dream. Above us lies the unanswerable, things humanity can’t quite touch. It’s escapism, another way to flee the rigid, concrete thoughts that maintain our efficiency and control.

A clear, night sky puts existence in perspective. No longer is our focus limited to the horizontal plane of the every day. Expanding. Lying down and looking at the stars, I don’t do it enough, but appreciate it when I do. I was fortunate to grow up in a place where stars are plentiful and normal, normal enough to forget. Many don’t have the opportunity to see the night as it is, most grow up in an urban, smog-choked atmosphere, one that stifles the sky. Living in the West it’s easy to take for granted what many would marvel.

Up is captivating, the possibilities infinite. Looking at the sky grounds me, reminding me of humanity’s place, our isolation, our planet’s fragility.

* * * *

Wednesday night, past midnight. I can see my dorm; it sits quiet and dark. Almost there, warm covers and softer pillows pull me near. I shuffle to the front doors of the building; work and school already wait on the eastern horizon. I look up. The moon and stars sit content in their space.