I came up out of the
ground at West 50th Street and Eighth Avenue every
day at about the same time when I worked as a
clerk-typist for the buying offices of Sears, Roebuck
and Co. in Manhattan. Despite subway maps that show
the island of Manhattan erect, the cross streets
don't really stretch due east-west. Manhattan is
tilted out of kilter with longitude and the cross
streets run somewhat northwest to southeast.
Consistently climbing out of that subway at the same
time every day, five mornings a week, I noticed the
sun was less reliable than me. It was always
differently placed in the eastern sky and usually
behind a building. Then came consecutive days when I
climbed out of the subway and into a blinding sun.
For several mornings in a row, when I arrived to the
underground station, I took note of how deep into the
stairwell the sunlight descended. After reaching the
top of the stairs, I would observe how high between
the buildings the sun had ascended at the far
southeast end of the street. Then, one morning, while
going to work in the time before the seemingly
eternal reign of Cats at the Winter Garden Theater,
when Beatlemania yet occupied that stage, I gained
insight into how easy it was for primitive humans to
become acquainted with the patterns of heavenly
bodies.
How much easier for those early humans in a time
before cities to have noticed the relationship of the
sun's cycle with the cycle of plant life and the
river's predictable flooding. In New York, time as
dictated by the sun and stars is obstructed by a
labyrinth of walls on which are posted clocks and
calendars to compensate. Although in theory the
modern city-dweller might use the oddly shaped tors
and pinnacles of skyscrapers to mark the passing of
celestial lights, the night sky has been banished by
the bright lights of Broadway.
My astronomy lesson wouldn't continue until years
later, after I had moved back to suburbia and began
working the off tours for AT&T. There are not as
many lights and towering obstacle here in Levittown,
Pennsylvania. Until the death of Boris, my
Newfoundland dog, I used take him for walks late at
night. Boris meandered about with his nose tracking
along the ground. He was building mental models of
trails and territories as designated by scents. I
pointed my nose to the transparent night sky. The
brighter stars were visible and it was possible to
discern constellations.
The street in front of my house runs briefly
straight. If I stand in the middle of it and turn
right, the street points me directly at Polaris (the
North Star). The Big Dipper revolves around it like
the hour hand of a clock. I can see the clockwork of
the heavens in motion and the North Star the pin at
its hub. It is always there in the sky, but of course
it cannot be seen during the opaque daylight. It was
easy to understand the conclusions reached by
Ptolemy.
In the course of walking Boris regularly during every
season and for several years, I saw how the great
dome of heaven slowly wobbled. It was mostly evident
in the trajectories of the sun and moon. In the
summer months the sun followed an arc high overhead,
while the moon traced a lower arc closer to the
southern horizon. In winter the sun and moon had
exchanged paths. Seeing that, it was no longer an
insurmountable proposition to believe Neolithic
Stonehenge was used for astronomical observations.
They had the night sky undiluted by streetlights. It
would have been easier for them than for me who
spends most of his life inside the glow of
civilization. Lessons from grade school became
blatantly obvious. I could envision our planet's tilt
as it orbited the sun. I was suddenly inside the
orrery. With the hindsight my education gave me, I
could understand more than Ptolemy from just the few
visible stars over my head, and Ptolemy had the
advantage with his starry desert nights free of
pollution.
Without Boris, my priorities have shifted and now my
nights are spent at my desk reading or writing. But I
had been a stargazer, living at oddball hours and
pursuing the secrets of the universe while most of my
neighbours slept, or watched television. I learned to
tell the time by the moon, if there was a moon to
see. I could understand the phases of the moon and
why they had to be in a certain part of the sky at a
certain time. Ever since I have found mistakes of how
the moon was depicted in movies and in paintings.
Directors and painters must not have walked their
dogs at night, or maybe they owned cats.
And as with the ancient astronomers, I sought my
destiny in the stars, imposing my beliefs on them, as
did those earlier stargazers. Reckoning by the stars,
it doesn't matter where I live, how long I live, or
what I shall achieve in my lifetime, except to
myself. Walking the dog at night was a humbling
lesson. It is only a matter of time and all evidence
of my ever having existed will be obliterated. It is
only a matter of time and the mountains will melt
away. Even the moon will dissolve in some unpredicted
cataclysm. The differences that define the moon, the
mountains, and me will grow infinitesimal, will cease
to exist at all. Our identities will be lost in an
homogeneous stew of the indiscernible. |