Culture Slut: The Moon Tried to Kill Me
Last month, the moon tried to kill me. I felt like I was literally fighting for my life, facing off against celestial bodies and ancient powers. I’m happy to say that I pulled through, but it was a pretty rough two weeks, very much not the kind of personal struggles I would have previously envisioned myself having at the age of 31.
I’m not super au fait with astrology, but I know enough to get by in a Brighton or London creative-industry millennial conversation (probably not Bristol and definitely not LA). I know my suns from my risings, who gets on with who, what love matches might work, but equally have no idea where Venus is or why she has so many houses (no one needs 12 houses, kill all property hoarders and slum-lords.) But I do love the moon. I like seeing at the moon shine on the sea from my bedroom window. I like it when it floods my room and wakes me from troubling dreams.
I like waving hello to her when I head to my job in the evenings. I like the romanticism and the poetry, the paintings and the photographs. I think often about Diana, Artemis, Selene, Hecate, all the goddesses who preside over its cratered faces. I contemplate the Sea of Tranquillity, all the Lunar Maria, the Ocean of Storms. I think of Neo Queen Serenity and the Kingdom of the Moon, the Imperium Silver Crystal and the Inner Senshi. I lament the fact that the first humans to walk on its surface were tasteless army brutes with no capacity for the spiritually feminine implications of the unexplored mysteries. I contemplate the gnostic goddess and the dazzling darkness that lies beyond. I think on all this, and I feel even more betrayed that she turned on me in such a wild way.
I tend to measure my life in moon phases, aligning myself and my struggles with the waxing and waning of the goddess. If I find myself feeling more than usually depressed, I look up the lunar phase calendar on my phone and see a full moon approaching, or that one has just been. I tell myself that that is the cause and in a few days, a week maybe, we will be entering a new phase and my emotions will stabilise. As someone who has been through a lot of trauma-related mental health issues, I’ve found that patience, letting wild moods pass, holding on tight til they do, has been vital to my growth and healing. Time doesn’t necessarily heal all wounds, but it does give us distance and sometimes perspective. And after all, what better way to measure time than by the movements of the moon and stars, the celestial dances that meant so much to our ancient ancestors? If the moon gave power to the mystics of ancient Greece, the lost mystery schools of Rome, the folk cults of Europe and so many more, then why not to me. My gift is the passage of time. And music.
___STEADY_PAYWALL___
The weeks between the October full moon and its subsequent new moon are always the most tumultuous for me, but this year it really took its toll. I am the survivor of two violent sexual assaults, both of which happened in my 20s and on the street. Just after the second one five years ago I was really struggling and threw myself in front of a taxi on my way home from the club. This was in the October of that year, just after the full moon, so now every year during that lunar phase I tend to find myself curling up into a ball in bed and not wanting to see anyone or do anything. The trauma feels intrinsic, constantly below the surface, occasionally coming up for air and reminding me it’s still there. There is also an accompanying overwhelming sense of grief, not about the event itself, but mourning the loss of so much of my life because of it, the time I’ve spent trying to recover, the opportunities I’ve lost because I couldn’t focus on anything else, the self I could have been without the spiralling misery of just existing.
I walk to the bus stop in the evening, feeling oddly empty, and I see that giant October moon blazing down at me and I remember everything. I do my shift at work, focusing on mindless tasks, constantly playing podcasts on my phone, video-essays on old Hollywood, Juno Birch playing The Sims, anything, a constant stream of content that means I don’t have to sit with myself. Sometimes I finish work early, at 6am, and it’s still pitch black. I walk home from the bus stop and the moon is still there. The day hasn’t changed. It’s the same moon, the same night. Maybe it will be the same night forever, what if it never changes? I go to bed before the sun rises and stay there all day. When I get up for supper it’s already dark again, and when I leave the house, the moon is back, huge and oppressive, no different from yesterday. It repeats.
The next day I think to myself, “Moon, don’t come up tonight, he’s not here to share your lovely sight.” It’s a Patty Waters break up song, strange and empty. “Don’t light forsaken dreams.” The words hook into me and I feel them catch in my throat. She is singing about a lost love, but I relate them to a lost self, the me that I can feel is currently checking out of this situation. I don’t want to do any of this any more, I’m too fragile for such a heavy burden. I’m too queeny for this bullshit - it's what I say to myself at work when I have to take out the big industrial bins, or scrub a public toilet. I’m too queeny for this bullshit. I don’t want it. “I just don’t care any more, I’ve reached the end of the road, won’t cry these tears any more.” Another song, Can’t Cry These Tears by Garbage. The moon is still there. How much longer will this go on for?
Later that night, I lie my head down on the desk in the office and wish it was all over. I wished I was in bed, with no requirements to ever get up again. Moon, don’t come up tonight. But then, echoing in the recesses of my mind is something else, a drum beat and a new lyric: Don’t let the light go out. Don’t let the light go out. I look it up on my phone and realise that it’s the new Panic! At The Disco song, the one about heavy machinery. I listen to it on my phone several times throughout my shift, and keep the refrain on loop in my head. Don’t let the light go out. Don’t let the light go out. I finish later this morning, so when I’m walking down the street to my house the sun has started to rise and the grey clouds have warm pink bellies. Don’t let the light go out. Maybe things are finally changing.
The moon is back again that night. It’s hard to look at her, but not as brutal as before. Tonight the lyric is different. Tonight it's more about bargaining, it's looking for change, for solutions. It’s a Judy Garland live recording of a Barbara Streisand Funny Girl song. “In every way, every day, I need less of myself and I need more him, more him.” It’s true. The self I am in this moment is so full of grief and trauma that there is no room for anything else. I look back at the person I was before, the person that I have been, the person I am most of the time, and I want him back. Them back. I need less of myself. I need more them. Don’t let the light go out. Less of myself. Don’t let the light go out. I need more them. Theirs is the music that makes me dance. Take me home.
The final night is a promise.
“I will change my whole life, everything I ought to remember will soon be gone, I will change my whole life if that’s what you want.” Francoise Hardy.
The English language version of the incredible Mina song Se Telefonando. Why is the English version so different? The direct translation of the Italian song is about a breakup over the phone, powerful and emotional, a soaring orchestration and triumphant melody. The English release of the song by Francoise is a girl offering to give up her whole life, friends, ideas, and personhood for the love of a man. Talk about lost in translation. I’m happy I have enough mental capacity for this kind of cultural analysis again. I can finally think about something other than my own misery. Oh no, I’m dipping again, better play the song once more. It’s given me a mantra. I will change my whole life. Don’t let the light go out. Less of myself. I will change my whole life. More them. Don’t let the light go out. Don’t let the light go out.
I change out of my uniform in the morning. The clouds are pink with sunlight, and I can see blue sky on the horizon. The sun is nearly coming up over the Sussex downs. I play another song. Here Comes The Boy. A silly moment from TikTok made into a fully edited and treated recording. Here comes the boy. Hello boy. Welcome. There he is, he is here.
Words and Imagery: Misha Mn
