Friday, August 25, 2006
Elegy for Pluto
A series of wires connecting nine variously sized sacrificed Superballs to a grapefruit center. Now my solar system is off. An idea of the firmament goes out of fashion like a hemline.
The first job title I ever wanted was “astronomer.” It was a practicality: I needed to know which Christmas lights up there were the planets so I didn’t curse a wish by aiming it wrong. And I was fine with the disparate ideas that stars were something to be both wished on and comprised of basic elements. I knew all the constellations. I slept with a special lamp that turned them across my ceiling and bedroom walls all night.
What does it mean to us when even planets can be redefined as not? I always root for more players on the team. Contrarily, what freedom can we find in shaking off a shoe that doesn’t fit? As in, “you are not planet, you are dwarf planet. You are not burden, you are minor irritation.” I miss Pluto already. As if it has gone somewhere.