Loonie Eclipse May 20, 2022
“We shall not cease from exploration.
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”
TS Eliot
This dog-eared quote from the poet, who once explored as far as Oxford, is a favorite during this season of commencements, and even now it points me to the enlightened perspective that our wandering is supposed to bring. And yet, as I scale the same hilltop Miradores that I did one year ago—Cristobalito to the west, Guadalupe to the east, El Cerrillo to the north, Santa Cruz to the south—I still find my vantage points eclipsed. I might wish to understand this place for the first time, but my vertigo forever gets in the way.
Local resentment of the English language—the tool of the global imperialists, of which I am apparently a regional representative—leaves me effectively in the dark. I can only imagine what others are saying about me (and my type), and so I do: They say, “You don’t belong here, this place isn’t for you.” Often, those who I imagine saying this come from Mexico City and market themselves as healers, quantum shamans, and hula hoop instructors. Here the classical scientist is considered the weirdo.
To mark one full revolution around the sun since our arrival in the southern frontier of Chiapas, a lunar eclipse exposes celestial geometry, in emphatic 3-dimensional relief, under a clear expectant sky. Simply mention planetary alignment in these parts, and the immigrant astrologers burst into action—in the hills of Encuentro and Mamut and Arcotete, as well as throughout the city. For a donation ranging from 200-1000 pesos, moon-worshippers with disposable incomes can partake in cacao ceremonies, mushroom trips, and perhaps even peek through a telescope at reality. The gathering on the nearby rooftop of the Bruja Hostel is looking particularly witchy tonight, while, next door, the offices of Fray Bartolomé and Templo San Francisco are locked and darker than ever.
At the moment in which the last sliver of sunlight disappears from the edge of the moon, when the sphere takes on a salmon hue, a host of didgeridoos and conch shells sound from points unknown, immediately followed by a cacophony of human howls in the night. The street dogs of Barrio Lucia may be completely acclimated to the regular explosions that come with this territory, but the wailing of humanity is just too much for them to bear. The dogs join the costumed pagans for the chorus, who in turn rejoice at their cosmic convergence with canines.
The eclipse lasts longer than expected, however, and soon the conches and didgeridoos lose steam, leaving the Bohemians to their chattering cocktail-cacao parties and the rest of us dogs to resume our duties. Howl.