In the days when rocks could talk and the Sun licked the Earth like a dog licks her puppies, it so happened that one of the Moon’s wives turned out to be a snake. When the two of them came to visit, the Sun did not open her arms to them and say, it’s an unconventional relationship between you two, but hey, whatever turns you on! Stars are not like that.
She said, you’re not good for each other. You’re codependent, and Moon, there’s something wrong with you. Shield is a snake because you’re enabling her. You must renounce her, but while you’re at it, renounce the bad reputation you’ve sunk into, renounce all your bad habits. Deal with your shame, man!
Why couldn’t she just say, come here, silly boy, you’re fine just the way you are? Why does the Sun need the Moon to make her human?
There is a scientific explanation which humans have developed, and you can find it at
but meanwhile the Moon is trapped in a story, as he always is.
Night after night, he goes to a different woman, and they’re all like the Sun, needing him to make them human. He kisses them, listens to them, holds them tenderly. He tries to show them another way of looking at things, to turn their words into poetry, their movement into music, their flesh into paradise.
It is all to no avail. They only want one thing from him, his potential. That is why his dreamy peregrinations are doomed to narrative. They want form. He builds expectations.
To hell with it, he says to himself this time. This comfort I take with my wives, this impetus they manufacture in my life, I don’t need it! I am a philosopher, a musician, a poet. I love my wound! I will be a saint!
The crone is the Moon’s love image divested of everything he craves. It is a profound sadness in him, dead possibility. She is romance unromanticised. She is now his eyes and all he sees. He never was separated from his mother.
The Moon, for the moment, has renounced himself. Now it is just a story, and I may have got it wrong. You would think that the Moon would recognise sainthood as just another another addiction, wouldn’t you?
A note on crones.
Briefly put, a crone is a wise woman, but for very cogent reasons, one who has always been mistrusted.
It is quite difficult to get to know her personally. She is not so much wise as steeped in wisdom, an unstinting servant to a community, but a stern judge, disconcertingly aloof, even arid, one feels.
Her presence is impressive, but there seems something wrong with her face. How could it not reveal the embarrassment of suffering to the degree necessary to explain her knowledge?
Her raucous good humour contemptuously despatches any suspicion of inauthenticity, and yet the edge to that humour leaves an impression.
She reminds us of a man, proud in dependency, competent in redundancy, important in deference.
She is the man in a woman, the mother of the Moon, an asteroid.