In a short time I will enter the day, a tunnel looming with telephones and bullets. I live in Syracuse, New York and there are many bullets. But just now I’m keeping a kernel of faith under my tongue like a pomegranate seed or my first dime from the Tooth Fairy. Disabled, I know the Tooth Fairy is a patron saint—she gives you small change when you lose something from your body. She’s related to the Man in the Moon who’s a cripple, who started out in Scotland gathering sticks (it’s good work for cripples) and did it so well he ended on the moon. If you’re sorrowing, look up, a very old arthritic man still stands up there.
My wife has entered the day ahead of me. She’s running a load of laundry. I can hear the machine making it’s horse cart sounds, clip clop. A water pipe clicks behind a wall. Very soon I too will become practical. I will vacuum dust and dog hair. I’ll read the scurrilous headlines. I will worry about my friends—many of them living on the edge, fearing that in their crippledness, blackness, redness, gayness, their gender, oh it’s a long list, that they will be yet again, today, this very morning once again targets. Christ, send us another Tooth Fairy if you’re not planning to come back. Buddha, drop some pearl teeth on the path this morning where I’ll walk my dogs.
Sometimes in the airport, though you’re simply blind, they meet you at the arriving airplane with a wheelchair. All you wanted was a sighted companion to help you find your connecting flight. They insist you sit in the chair. You have a dog. You don’t need the chair. You explain this. It becomes a tangled supra cultural mess. Eventually you have to walk away, going fast with your dog, as guide dogs go fast, just the two of you speeding into the unknowable shopping mall airport because, after all, a third rate sighted companion is no companion at all. And you find your way. It just takes a little longer. The point is, and it’s a Man in the Moon affair, for I believe he picked up sticks and gave them to orphans who took them home—fires are a matter of neighborly spirit, they are the first act of communitarian life—the point, you travel into the tunnel of a day and there are a thousand good samaritans for every doofus. In my personal idiom, I call this The Man in the Moon Principle.