(Click on the photo for a larger version)
While thinking about going to bed, I remembered it was a Super Blue Moon out, and decided to take a crack at it. The weather was quite comfortable, with a slight breeze, when I set up the tripod in our driveway. Still, at the extreme zoom necessary to get the shots that night, the slightest hint of a breeze caused a noticeable wobble on the camera’s screen, so I used the timer. I took a load of stills, and several times shot a minute or two of video. While keeping an eye on the screen, during one of the videos, I noticed something zip past the moon, and after I downloaded the files, located that particular video. I was delighted and rather surprised to see such a large bat zip across, reverse course and flutter to the top of the moon, then down in the direction it had come from, almost as if it was acting for an opening scene of a horror movie.
If I’d still been shooting stills, I’d have missed it. If I hadn’t been a bit lazy, I would have driven to a favorite spot away from city lights, where I’ve frequently done night photography, and once again, I would have missed that bat. Examining the videos from that night more closely, I noticed that the bat crisscrossed the moon several more times during my shoot, though none of them nearly so close.
My family moved to this neighborhood in ’62, and we’ve been at this address for more than 30 years – I’ve seen many bats flutter around the street lights, eating insects – but they’ve all been tiny, and I’ve not seen one that size at all, in Indiana.
All things considered, I was quite lucky to manage to capture that bat, at that time, at that angle, hamming it up for the camera.
Isn’t it intriguing how we can partition-off our thoughts, memories and even innate abilities? Have you ever awakened from a deep sleep, and for a moment, found yourself unable to tell if it was morning or the middle of the night? Or been so absorbed or distracted, you had to ask someone what time it was? Yet, there also seems to be an internal clock of sorts, an ability to keep accurate track of time, off in another part of the brain. Once, when I was a child, I came up with an experiment – I gave myself suggestions to awaken at an arbitrarily chosen time – I remember in particular, 3:17 A.M., as one I picked. I’d go to bed at 9 or 10, and sure enough – I’d find myself opening my eyes, and when the bedside clock came into focus, it would read 3:17. I repeated this experiment numerous times, in case it was just a fluke. Loathing the abrupt intrusion of the alarm clock, in a similar fashion, I trained myself to wake gently, 5 minutes before the alarm went off-though it was always set, just in case.
Years later, while working for the H. Lieber Company downtown, I’d take my lunch in the ancient warehouse part of the building, and do a recharge self-hypnosis session, always returning to fully awake in plenty of time to clock back in. Co-workers and bosses would slog back to work after a heavy lunch, and rather hated me for returning full of energy and enthusiasm, as if it was 8 A.M. again.
This temporal experiment from those days was inspired from an account by a hypnotherapist, who needed a bathroom break, and suggested his patient watch Gone with the Wind in his mind. When he returned minutes later, the patient reported he’d watched the entire movie. Our perception of time is certainly relative to criteria and reference points, internal or external. Can a certain cluster of brain cells sense and measure internal processes in such a fashion, that it could serve as a clock? Or, do we sense and measure external beats, pulses or rhythms? Would we lose that sense if the outside source were blocked, say, by a Faraday cage or an isolation tank?
Albert Einstein explained relativity: “When you sit with a nice girl for two hours you think it’s only a minute, but when you sit on a hot stove for a minute you think it’s two hours. That’s relativity.”
With a few carefully worded suggestions, my workday zipped past like a 5-minute shower, and those evenings with my wonderful wife stretched on beyond the metered clock. Subjectively, at least, it is possible to flip relativity in your favor.
There is still so much we still have to learn about ourselves.
Contents:
Ohrwurm, by Steve Toase
Senescence – When Cells Decide to Become Something Else (poem), by Alicia Hilton
Dear Aunt Clara (poem), by Gwynne Garfinkle
Beverly’s Sonata, by Jennifer Hudak
Wake-up Call (poem), by David C. Kopaska-Merkel
Steam Punk Steady (poem), by Gretchen Tessmer
Plastic Elvis, by Leah Mueller
The Afterlife of Stars, by Anne Baldo
I Have a Sister Beyond the Sea (poem), by Sonya Taaffe
Art: Flo and John Stanton (cover); John Stanton
From John Benson, publisher of Not One of Us - Jan. 9, 2023:
As some of you have noticed, the Not One of Us website is down. In the time he can spare from his job, my son the webmaster is trying to figure out the problem, but it may take a little while.
In the meantime, I want to make it clear that we’re still operating. To submit a story or poem(s), attach the manuscript as a Word or rtf file to an email message addressed to john@not-one-of-us.pub.
If you want to purchase a single copy or subscription, the easiest way is to use PayPal. My PayPal address is wombatjb@comcast.net. Or you can send a check made out to John Benson, 12 Curtis Road, Natick, MA 01760 USA.
A single current issue of Not One of Us costs US$3.50 plus postage and handling ($1.00 for US, $1.25 for Canada, $2.50 for the rest of the world). Four-issue subscriptions are US$16.00 postpaid for the US, $17.50 for Canada, $22.50 elsewhere.
Contents:
The Family Visit, by Mackenzie Hurlbert
In Memoriam (poem), by Yuliia Vereta
Sawhands, by Rob Francis
Exposure (poem), by Sonya Taaffe
The Mind of the City Is Her Own, by Alexandra Seidel
Nothing Holy About It (poem), by Kent Kruse
Little Lying Gods, by Matthew McConkey
Notes From Forever Ago (poem), by Gerri Leen
Art: John Stanton (cover); Flo and John Stanton
