I've always had an extreme fascination with things cosmic. Before I was fascinated by anything else, I was fascinated by stars. All things cosmic: planets, stars, galaxies, black holes, event horizons, worm holes, and white holes, everything in space that exists or could possibly exist.
Well, this isn't entirely true. I was incredibly fascinated by dinosaurs, but when I learned they didn't exist anymore (in theory – at least in quantities accessible enough to study), it was difficult for me to keep my interest piqued. And then, when the evolutionists told me that birds used to be dinosaurs, the deal was sealed. It would be too hard for me to maintain an interest in something that isn't even observable in any way, and that people were trying to convince me became a bird.
The interest with dinosaurs never completely vanished. I still eat them up and think they're totally rad, but my interest in cosmic things is far more prevalent. This interest expresses itself in my thirst for sci-fi, space documentaries, wanting to know about the theoretical sciences, and simple stargazing. I even remember the very first time I stargazed. It was in Bailey, Colorado, a place way the hell up there in the mountains free from city lights. Perfect for stargazing. I lived with my mom, my quadriplegic grandpa, and my aunt. My aunt and I took a walk to the end of our dirt road street to the mailboxes so that something could be sent off for the next day. My aunt pointed up in the sky and said, “You can see the milky way,” and holy crap was she right. In all my attempts at stargazing, successful and otherwise, I have never seen such a clear picture of the milky way. It was a shock of white smeared through the center of the night sky, points of glitter sticking out. I was awestruck. In my (at this point) five years of life, I had never thought to simply look up. I looked up, and haven't quit.
So, in sixth grade, I was so in love with astronomy that I was devouring any little bit about it I could. The best part of outdoor lab (a week long “wilderness survival” exercise for sixth grade kids for those not in the know) was the Mt. Evans Observatory, the mock Stonehenge, the small scale planetarium, the stargazing. I was dumbfounded by looking at the sun through a filtered lens on a telescope. I even got invited back in the summer (as this was a winter activity) to a special camp totally dedicated to just astronomy. That exists in my history as one of the best weeks of my life.
One memory in particular stands out. We hiked 2 or so miles behind the Mt. Evans facility to a large cabin in the middle of a giant meadow. Our goal was to watch Jupiter's satellites (Jupiter's always held a point of particular fascination. And Mars. They probably do for every true sci-fi fan) Europa and Callisto (I think) swing around the front side of the planet. Something that happened very rarely, given the disparate orbital patterns of the two bodies. As a bonus, they were swinging around in front of the Great Red Spot. Only four of us (including two of the instructors) got up at four in the morning to watch this, and as if two satellites and a red spot weren't enough, I happened to witness the brightest meteor I had ever seen in my life shoot over the mountains standing right behind me. It was a total stereotypical shooting star: it even had the generic star shape preceding the rainbow infused tail. It lit up the entire field.
I even thought about astronomy as a career once. That idea quickly faded to the background when I hit high school and I convinced myself that I wanted to be other things. Then I learned that I'm lame at physics, and I accepted (gladly) that, at most, astronomy would be a hobby.
So what does all of this have to do with anything? Well, occasionally, I get a strong jonesin' for some stargazing. In fact, if I ever attend a “worship service” or something equally God awful at night, when everyone else is singing whatever tripe they gotta sing, I head outside, find a nice patch of grass, and see something far more awe inspiring and deserving of attention than lame wad songs.
So, a couple of weeks ago, I tried to find Orion. I couldn't. I couldn't see him. I realized a vast reservoir of my astro-knowledge had been drained. I couldn't find Orion, and I couldn't remember if it's because he's not visible in this hemisphere at this time of year, or if I was looking in the wrong patch of sky. But he's always been visible, hasn't he? I could have sworn I'd always been able to look to the south and see him. And then I can't remember if that's Mars or Jupiter I'm looking at. That one's Venus... think. And maybe it's just all the light noise down here.
So the jones hit really hard, but gay on ice terrestrial matters prevented me from hitting the mountains to catch Orion, the Dippers, the Pleiades, Scorpio, Cassiopeia, Betelgeuse, Moon, The Twins, and as many other constellations as I could absorb. Last night, I wanted to go, kind of a lot. I didn't because I was with friends, and I feel uncomfortable with my celestial fascination around others. I could probably spend a couple of hours just... staring, and most people can't.
So, last night at two, or rather this morning, I thought I'd try to satisfy it. I went to an area that I thought was secluded enough, but there was still too much noise to be able to see clearly. It was so late that I decided I should just go home and try the next night, perhaps. So, I drove back, struggling to see constellations, and I was frustrated because I used to be able to look at the sky and just see these shapes that so fascinated all of our ancestors. I couldn't. So, I cranked the radio (Smashing Pumpkins – Zeitgeist) and just drove home.
As I crested the hill on 112th and Wadsworth (ish) a saw a simple unassuming shooting star. A tiny white strike that sliced through some black for the briefest of instants. But it was enough. I couldn't find Orion, or Betelgeuse, and I couldn't remember if it was Mars or Jupiter I was seeing, but at least I saw some kind of heavenly action.
My jones wasn't fixed, and my thirst wasn't slaked, but at least last night at 2:14 in the morning wasn't a wash, and it might even be some sort of stretch, but it can't help but make me feel like possibly my search was paid off in the form of some small reward, as if someone was watching me, and gave me just enough to make me feel like what I did was worth it.
