Preface: below is a list of objects I can see as I write while sitting in my living room and looking around. We’ll find out what conclusions their inclusions bring.
Coat
Coat
Jacket
Hat
Umbrella
Ukulele
Stair
Railing
Window
Window
Window
Window
Window
Art
Stocking (three)
Guitar
Computer
Cigarettes
Lighter
Ear plugs
Ear muffs
Jar
Glass
Tissue
Book
Book
Journal
Book
Book
Pen
Book
Book
Log
Chair
Chair
Ottoman
Couch
Blanket
Blanket
Blanket
Clip
Knitting
Google
Tree
Tin
Mandolin
Pan
Table
Chair
Chair
Chair
Hutch
Glass
Hat
Hat
Hat
Silly hat
Hat
Picture
Picture
Pillow
Pillow
Pillow
Chalk
Switch
Lamp
Lamp
Fan
Light
Snow
Rug
Bass
Washboard
Spoon
Spoon
Spoon
Fork
Napkin
Rug
Paper bag
Backpack
Socks
Sneakers
Keyboard
Banjo
Drum
Singing bowl
Turntable
Receiver
Speaker
Speaker
Globe
Sonic screwdriver (replica)
TARDIS (mug)
Shelf
Sound machine
Giraffe
Giraffe
Elephant
Elephant
Elephant
Rhino
Iguana
Dr. McCoy
Nearly one hundred board games
Wallet
Art
Art
Art
Flag
Flag
Clothespin (four)
Switch
Trunk (non-elephant)
Bag
Purse
Candle
Candle
Dremel
Cookbook
Teapot
Mug (non-TARDIS)
Envelope
Paper
Drying rack
Apron
Coffee maker
Coffee
Photo
Tea
Chinois
Trowel
Gloves
Garden shears
Outlet
Repurposed nightstand
Bookshelf
Capo
Toaster oven
Cabinet
Cupboard
Goodbye note
As you can see, my residence has a relatively open floor plan.
And that’s only one room.
There’s a lot there. So I wonder, extrapolating, if you’ve ever had the experience of the universe pouring itself into your head. It’s not necessarily unpleasant. It happens to me every day.
Mercury
Venus
Earth
Mars
Ceres
A bunch of asteroids
Jupiter
Saturn
Uranus
Neptune
Makemake
Pluto
Eris
Haumea
Quaoar
Sedona
Gonggong
Orcus
A bunch more asteroids
An Oort cloud
And for good measure, some comets that stop by occasionally
All objects in space.
Interesting to me that they’re all mainly named after gods. You might worship a god, or gods. I don’t have that luxury, at least not any longer.
I have objects in space.
I have music and words and an approximate knowledge of many things. I have the tug of gravity (mavity, if you’re up to date on Doctor Who). It’s the collective human condition, if you’re at least a little bit good at it.
Orbits are inevitable. The planets, the dwarf planets, the asteroids, the comets, the bodies in space, make complexity. They make movement. Because they must. And so must we. And do.
Back to the initial list.
Every object listed has meaning. I won’t bore you with each. We assign or tell or imagine stories about every object, including ourselves.
A few examples, from the couch.
The couch itself came from my mom, who didn’t want it anymore. My dad (the two are divorced something like twenty years) delivered it. It’s a three hour drive. Getting it inside, given its weight, and the configuration of this house, was nothing short of Herculean. This allows me to calculate my orbit.
My partner, as tradition, sets up the Christmas tree, which is a weird sculpture that’s not really a tree. It contains metalwork, golf clubs, lights, and orbs. We’ve been together more than a decade, and, frankly, I’ve stopped counting. Because what matters is that we’re bodies in the same space.
Stories, meanings, narratives.
All objects in the space in our heads.
Yet the objects themselves occupy our many spaces. Physical space, headspace, the space we make for others. But each object is distinct. That doesn’t mean they aren’t interconnected.
Soon, at least in certain areas, we’ll have a total solar eclipse. Luna will arrive and blot out Sol. For many of us, it’ll be the last time it happens. Luna is moving slowly away from Terra, and eventually, will be too far away. Humankind won’t see another eclipse (if we even survive that long), the tides will change, the night sky will shift.
The gravity won’t be quite right anymore. Neither will the time. Nor the distance. Nor the closeness, I suppose. Terra and Luna are a two body system. But it won’t last forever. We’ll (I mean our progeny) possibly see more stars. Some of them may go out.
In the words of Neko Case (who I think is one of the greatest American songwriters, and that everyone should listen to them), “I have lightning, if the stars go dry, to guide me”
Yet, every object around pulls on us, pulls on each other. Heck, Jupiter and Sol orbit a point outside either, because that’s how mass works. It works like that with memory and relationships, too. Sometimes, we move away slowly. Or crash into each other. More often, we find a way to orbit in relative peace and harmony.
We’re all orbiting each other in our shared spaces.
It might be the joined mass of a lover’s body against your own. It might be your coworker and friend comforting you after you tell them your grandma is in the hospital and will likely die soon. It might be the person you knew in college or high school or whatever, who wants to reconnect after all these years. It might be the stranger you help out with directions. Being human means having gravity.
Gravity is a slant rhyme for dignity.
Tell the truth, but tell it slant.
Beginning again.
I know the space that each object I can see from my living room occupies and what that means. The Sol system, less so. I can name planets all day, make metaphors, but I don’t own a telescope. I still feel the pull. It seems important to recognize we pull back.
There will always be a darker night.
Sol will expand, eventually, and eat Terra. In the intervening millennia, there’s good news: there will always be a brighter day.
We’re each those objects, circling, not always knowing, because we can’t. But we can love and wonder at the orbits we find ourselves in, no matter how still we feel. There’s always a pull. And more than one. And more than once.
