Blood Moon in Brooklyn, Reviewed

Around 5:15 a.m. this morning, I slipped on a robe and some sandals and made my way outside, to do what humans have been doing ever since we emerged out of the muck and developed both eyes and gods—look up at the sky at something extremely cool and go, "Wow."

The street was quiet and empty. Down the block, I could make out the outline of one other person doing exactly what I was: standing still, gazing up at a blush-red moon, its light dimmed but for one small crescent, visible in between the trees. 

If a solar eclipse is somewhat terrifying—even other animals freak out!—a lunar eclipse is something more gentle. 

The sky is dark (you're a bit sleepy anyway) and unlike a solar eclipse, which can feel like the very fabric of space and time is rupturing, all that happens is a gradual change in the color and intensity of the moon. How nice, like a soothing cup of tea you sip while contemplating the passage of time and your eventual death. 

I could wax on about how the brief moment of a lunar eclipse is a time to think about one's insignificance in the universe, or how I began humming the tune to Teresa Teng’s classic love song. But I was cold. (I should have put on some pants.) After a few minutes during which I squinted to notice any changes in the moon, I went back inside. My dog barked at me, a reminder to feed her. I checked the bin, only to belatedly remember I had run out of kibble the night before. It'd be an eggs and oatmeal day for the both of us.