48. I’m not an astronomer, so I can’t speak to what stars may shine within any of the 88 constellations which our oracle-clergy of scientists has ascribed to these celestial scenes. I don’t know which dots define the constellation Taurus, or if it was actually named after the bull-form Zeus assumed when capturing a princess, the creature involved in the bestial conception of the Minotaur, or the bull of heaven which caused Enkidu’s death and Gilgamesh’s infamous soliloquy of despair. I’m not sure which dots might belong to the many satellites spinning around our revolving realm as they send signals of every sort to orient so many ever-scrolling screens. I don’t know which dots might be other space-based scopes that soar through the vacuous void of space in search of anything to stream back to a few lonely labs where scientists listen so longingly to the coded content which emanates from every angle of an almost empty exploratory expanse. When I look up, I’m mostly just baffled. I’m baffled by the fact that, of all these signals, so few of them speak to more than the surface-level 8⛎⇊𝄋♄♙⚚ of anything in our deep dark domains. I’m baffled at how human eyes have gazed up to these tiny twinkling dots so far beyond our stranded sphere and not only strained to set them in outline-orders but almost magically managed to navigate the surfaces of our own spinning sphere, master the mysteries of mathematics, and manufacture myths to memorize them. But what baffles me the most, is how anyone could bypass being baffled by the beauty of the celestial sky above and how much bull we’ve managed to sift through to achieve all that we have.
No comments:
Post a Comment