01-25-2019, 06:34 PM
12/31/2018: Part 5 -- Stargazing
As we head down the path, we're chatting away. Stuart is in the lead and a ways ahead of us. At one point he stops and turns to say something -- nothing significant, just joining in the conversation. As he finishes and walks onward, that's when we see it, a large pale spider descending on a filament from the heavens. It comes down right where he had been standing. As it settles on the path before us, I stop to study it in my headlamp, letting the others go around. It has a mean countenance, like a wolf spider, but not robust enough, and wolf spiders don't spin webs. Gossamer and ghostlike, it crouches there facing me, and I sense a tremendous significance about it, like when a black cat crosses your path, only I can't fathom what it might mean.
Up ahead, Paula is cautioning everyone to be careful on the steps, which are treacherous even in daytime. I keep calling out (with a slight slur) that there are no steps, as if this will prevent them from materializing. But they do, one series after another. Knowing my somewhat impaired state, I take them slow and easy, and on those occasions when a tree-limb railing avails, I make sure to use it ... after checking it for bullet ants.
As I strive to catch up with the others, I find myself halfway across the dilapidated wood bridge before recognizing it, and shift aside at the last moment to skirt holes.
As we walk, there's lots of chatter, and the subject keeps changing. At mention of movies, I announce that I only watch movies that contain a chainsaw, centipede, and piano. That's sufficient cue for LC to mention my watching The Human Centipede. Paula and Sarad have no clue what that is, and I try to explain the gist of it.
The last set of steps end in a 45-degree downslope through tree roots. I am especially heedful of this section, knowing I need to proceed with the correct foot and placement among the roots so I end up oriented to grab a root for support at the steep jump-down point. We all descend to the shore without incident. Climbing into the docked boat -- me by sitting and swinging my legs in -- we get situated. Our headlamps show a clay bank next to us that, upon our arrival three days ago, was under water. Ominously, the river is down two feet.
Turning off our headlamps, we let our eyes adjust. The sky is clear, full of stars, the Milky Way prominent. We remain in a chatty mood, touching on lots of subjects, but it always circles back to The Human Centipede. Paula is having trouble visualizing it. "So, in other words, they're headless," she says, to which LC and I say, "Oh, they still have their heads." "So... That means..." "Yes." The questions keep coming, from Paula and Sarad. Stuart has gone silent. I begin to sense he's put off by our discussion. But I don't really care. Sarad wants to know how the people stay attached. Paula wonders how successive individuals get any nutrition. How many people are there? The first movie had three, the second had maybe nine, the third used all the inmates in a prison. I mention how the surgeon has a pet centipede in a terrarium, but it's clearly a millipede, and this scientific inaccuracy is what most bothers me about the whole series. Sarad finds this particularly amusing.
There comes a moment when the boat lurches. Stuart has gotten up. He steps past us muttering something about going to bed. LC queries whether our discussion has offended him, and he mutters something, but it's not clear. He gets out of the boat and heads on up. Sarad decides to call it a night too -- not offended, just tired. It's crazy that any of us are still up. It's been such a long day.
LC, Paula and I sprawl out in the boat, gazing at the sky. I keep insisting that at midnight, despite the surrounding jungle, the sky will light up with fireworks, just you see. Midnight is 45 minutes away. We engage in crazy, loopy discourse. Bringing in the New Year is a tradition for Paula. She hasn't missed a year for as long as she can remember. I suspect that LC and I might have called it a night except we don't want to abandon her. She can be very flighty. On several occasions she jumps at some noise coming from water's edge or from the jungle.
Lightningbugs flash and streak about, not a lot of them, but some. LC identifies constellations and notes that they're upside down in the southern hemisphere. I try to mentally wrap my mind around this, none too successfully. LC is puzzled though, and so am I, that the Milky Way isn't brighter, and that there aren't more stars visible. We are in the middle of the jungle, after all, away from any and all artificial lights. LC eventually pins it down. It's the high humidity, all the moisture in the air. It especially affects stars towards the horizon because there's more atmosphere (and water molecules) to look through.
Occasionally we see a falling star. Sometimes we're fooled. Once, when LC reports seeing one, Paula and I start to laugh. From our vantage points we clearly see that it's a lightning bug flashing just over her head. To be fair, they can be hard to distinguish, and I can't say with certainty that the three falling stars I saw were legit.
Midnight approaches (announced by Paula, checking her smartphone), and we commence a countdown. "Ten, nine, eight..." At midnight we shout (quietly, respecting the sanctity of the jungle), "Happy New Year!"
There are no fireworks.
As we head down the path, we're chatting away. Stuart is in the lead and a ways ahead of us. At one point he stops and turns to say something -- nothing significant, just joining in the conversation. As he finishes and walks onward, that's when we see it, a large pale spider descending on a filament from the heavens. It comes down right where he had been standing. As it settles on the path before us, I stop to study it in my headlamp, letting the others go around. It has a mean countenance, like a wolf spider, but not robust enough, and wolf spiders don't spin webs. Gossamer and ghostlike, it crouches there facing me, and I sense a tremendous significance about it, like when a black cat crosses your path, only I can't fathom what it might mean.
Up ahead, Paula is cautioning everyone to be careful on the steps, which are treacherous even in daytime. I keep calling out (with a slight slur) that there are no steps, as if this will prevent them from materializing. But they do, one series after another. Knowing my somewhat impaired state, I take them slow and easy, and on those occasions when a tree-limb railing avails, I make sure to use it ... after checking it for bullet ants.
As I strive to catch up with the others, I find myself halfway across the dilapidated wood bridge before recognizing it, and shift aside at the last moment to skirt holes.
As we walk, there's lots of chatter, and the subject keeps changing. At mention of movies, I announce that I only watch movies that contain a chainsaw, centipede, and piano. That's sufficient cue for LC to mention my watching The Human Centipede. Paula and Sarad have no clue what that is, and I try to explain the gist of it.
The last set of steps end in a 45-degree downslope through tree roots. I am especially heedful of this section, knowing I need to proceed with the correct foot and placement among the roots so I end up oriented to grab a root for support at the steep jump-down point. We all descend to the shore without incident. Climbing into the docked boat -- me by sitting and swinging my legs in -- we get situated. Our headlamps show a clay bank next to us that, upon our arrival three days ago, was under water. Ominously, the river is down two feet.
Turning off our headlamps, we let our eyes adjust. The sky is clear, full of stars, the Milky Way prominent. We remain in a chatty mood, touching on lots of subjects, but it always circles back to The Human Centipede. Paula is having trouble visualizing it. "So, in other words, they're headless," she says, to which LC and I say, "Oh, they still have their heads." "So... That means..." "Yes." The questions keep coming, from Paula and Sarad. Stuart has gone silent. I begin to sense he's put off by our discussion. But I don't really care. Sarad wants to know how the people stay attached. Paula wonders how successive individuals get any nutrition. How many people are there? The first movie had three, the second had maybe nine, the third used all the inmates in a prison. I mention how the surgeon has a pet centipede in a terrarium, but it's clearly a millipede, and this scientific inaccuracy is what most bothers me about the whole series. Sarad finds this particularly amusing.
There comes a moment when the boat lurches. Stuart has gotten up. He steps past us muttering something about going to bed. LC queries whether our discussion has offended him, and he mutters something, but it's not clear. He gets out of the boat and heads on up. Sarad decides to call it a night too -- not offended, just tired. It's crazy that any of us are still up. It's been such a long day.
LC, Paula and I sprawl out in the boat, gazing at the sky. I keep insisting that at midnight, despite the surrounding jungle, the sky will light up with fireworks, just you see. Midnight is 45 minutes away. We engage in crazy, loopy discourse. Bringing in the New Year is a tradition for Paula. She hasn't missed a year for as long as she can remember. I suspect that LC and I might have called it a night except we don't want to abandon her. She can be very flighty. On several occasions she jumps at some noise coming from water's edge or from the jungle.
Lightningbugs flash and streak about, not a lot of them, but some. LC identifies constellations and notes that they're upside down in the southern hemisphere. I try to mentally wrap my mind around this, none too successfully. LC is puzzled though, and so am I, that the Milky Way isn't brighter, and that there aren't more stars visible. We are in the middle of the jungle, after all, away from any and all artificial lights. LC eventually pins it down. It's the high humidity, all the moisture in the air. It especially affects stars towards the horizon because there's more atmosphere (and water molecules) to look through.
Occasionally we see a falling star. Sometimes we're fooled. Once, when LC reports seeing one, Paula and I start to laugh. From our vantage points we clearly see that it's a lightning bug flashing just over her head. To be fair, they can be hard to distinguish, and I can't say with certainty that the three falling stars I saw were legit.
Midnight approaches (announced by Paula, checking her smartphone), and we commence a countdown. "Ten, nine, eight..." At midnight we shout (quietly, respecting the sanctity of the jungle), "Happy New Year!"
There are no fireworks.