I have a rocky relationship with the moon.
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I'm bedazzled by it.
When it is full, it is like nothing else.
One of my favourite songs, Moon River, is sung by my favourite star, Audrey Hepburn, and Moonstruck is one of my movie obsessions. "Ahhh, La belle luna".
Clearly, the moon and I were meant to be. But, like any one-sided relationship, the object of my adoration doesn't see me. It's blinded by the sun. But this doesn't stop me from making a fool of myself in front of it.
My latest less-than-stellar turn was on Sunday. I read that my lunar lovely was due to do a line dance with Saturn and Jupiter after about 10pm.
The last time I ventured out to stare at the moon was September. I remember the month because it ended in a whole lot of tears and pain.
That fateful night began like any other.
It was about 11pm and my older dog and new puppy let me know it was time for a wee break outside.
I opened the door and was instantly bedazzled. The moon was full and bright.
I slipped on my double-pluggers and stood in the front garden.
Looking up, it made me swoon. My gaze was steady, until I saw something dart behind me. I jumped out of its way, clipped my foot on a rock, and hit the concrete.
I realised two things instantly: my puppy was what had startled me, and that two of my fingers weren't where they were supposed to be.
Later, after presenting my dislocated fingers to a surgeon at the hospital, he confirmed that I had "done a good job on them". What a proud moment.
I could have blamed the moon, or myself, but I blamed the dog. My two digits are almost back to normal. But they look a bit wonky, so I will never realise my dream of becoming a hand model.
However, I have blamed the moon for leading me astray in the past.
Many moons ago, I was in Byron Bay with a friend. We decided that going to an advertised 'Full Moon Festival' would be fun. When we arrived at the relatively open field just out of town, the scene was fairly predictable. There were loads of people, a few mysterious teepees/yurts, assorted fire twirlers, the waft of patchouli and the tribal beat of drums.
The moon - and more than a few festival funsters - were high.
Things were kicking off. The drums were getting faster. Somehow we found ourselves in the magic circle of dancing and drumming. So we danced.
To be honest, that was the limit of me being free and easy. Things got way too close when strangers grabbed my unwilling hand and led me on a crazy run around the circle. My mate laughed at my awkwardness.
So did I, nervously.
It was all fun and games until a load of mysterious types in white gowns entered the ring.
I sniffed trouble (or was it sandalwood?). The drums were going off like a frog in a sock, and so were the white gown brigade.
Suddenly, the white robes came off and, just like that, everything turned nude.
It would have been OK if just the white ninjas had disrobed, but most of the crowd were ditching the cheesecloth.
You are probably picking up that I'm not comfortable with public displays of nudity. Neither was my friend.
We were in a bit of a spot. If we stayed and kept our clothes on we would look uptight. If we disentangled ourselves from the naked hoard and politely excused ourselves, we would also look uptight.
So, we ran for it. As my mate said: "The only moon I want to see is in the sky".
Anyway, back to last Sunday.
The lunar show was on in earnest and I was tossing up whether to venture out into the dark and risk embarrassing myself again. I couldn't catch sight of the moon from a window so, when the gravitational pull was too much, I locked the dogs in the house and stepped outside.
It was lovely. Just the big ol' moon with its two twinkling mates.
I sighed and started to swoon.
Danger! Danger!
I stumbled slightly and it almost became a carbon copy of the Double Dislocation Moon. But, no, not this time. I managed to keep my feet on the ground. There was no clumsy trip around the moon.
I'll see my huckleberry friend again in August.
So, until then, mission accomplished.
- deborah.richards@newcastleherald.com.au
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