The are two reasons why I posted this poem. The first is that it deals in part with my growing understanding of the important mythos of science. Which is not to say that science is a myth, but instead that some times the sharing of it takes on some of the same elements as you might use to talk about any other mythological feature. A sense of awe blended with a sense of boundaries. The spaces between are both larger and smaller than can be easily conceived. Likewise, the ability to appreciate science is somewhat determined by our own ability to put in terms of ourselves.
The second reason is because I wrote this and posted it on some earlier version of this blog (circa 2003???, so probably the wyrmis.net variation) and someone found it and blended it into an online movie. The details of this have long been lost to me and I wish they had used, perhaps, a better poem. Still, that's cool.
This is the second version of it. If I wrote a third I'd probably add in a more outright mythological take at the end and cut the "goodnight" portion. Perfection is a myth, though. Sometimes you have to let your younger selves make their mistakes.
They tell me the sun is a fiery ocean, a current of heat...miles wide. They tell me it will rise and it will set every day that I happen to be alive and even quite a few I happen not to be. And I can understand salt taste waves. And I can understand yellow green flame. And I can believe it. They tell me sunspots are white hot. They tell me of no shadows, nor cold, but attraction and active atomic rerrangement. And I can understand love coming in waves. And I can understand forgetting just to breathe. And I can believe it. They tell me the sun is larger than my thumb and brighter than the sky. They tell me it is lonely, mediocre, normal, middle aged and no longer a god on his chariot. And I can understand wasted waves. And I can understand lost pieces of all our lives. And I can believe it. Hours and hours, spinning away. Goodnight, Sun, have a pleasant day. And when your great sea waves crash into some darknening shore as your own Sol finally sets, I pray that the fog (which comes to whatever beach where your children sit upon) comes riding the sweetest breeze, yet...