The Hermit of Iapetus -- Clair de Lune

On the nights I can't sleep I listen to “Clair de Lune,“ because it relaxes me and stops me from sleeping.

As I listen, the light of Saturn pours through the porthole and leaves a moon-shape on the floor. Night into day and into night, the moon-shape stays the same shape, though over long periods of time it will dim and brighten as Saturn changes from a full squashed circle to a crescent.

The sun, too, casts a moon-shape that grows as Saturn wanes, but it is far dimmer.

Sometimes I put bits of crystal in the Moon-shape, and the light dances on the walls. Or with a mirror I set the light to bouncing off the ceiling, the walls, and through bits of cheesecloth I have hanging near the ventilation shaft.

As I listen, I try to remember the Moon and its light.

I like to think Claude Debussy worked late into the night trying to capture the light of the moon with the ivory and ebony keys. Maybe many nights he watched moonlight slide across the floor over the hardwood and carpet to illuminate the dust bunnies in the corners without writing a note.

I like to think he watched moonlight crawl across lawns and cobblestones, sear through the leaves of trees wobbly in the wind, haunt the clouds on rainy nights.

Then, when he had the piece done, he played it late one night, coaxing the keys but long enough until Madame Debussy came into the room, pissed at her loss of sleep and his thoughtlessness of playing – even quietly – his new rolling tune.

Maybe as she entered the room turned and smiled impishly at her, finished playing, and played it again as the moonlight trickled in through the billowing curtains.

I like to think he played the music for hours, as the moonlight crept across the room and finally up the wall and then faded as the moon set. Maybe neighbors, also roused by the unusual noise, lay in their beds listening to the music and maybe they too watched the moonlight creeping.

Or maybe he and Marie boinked on the carpet on that dusty hardwood as the moonlight continued to play his melody and the neighbors slept lightly, wondering for a few moments if they had heard a tune or if it were just their minds playing tricks in the moonlight.

Either way, it’s only then I, the Hermit of Iapetus, can get some sleep.

And sometimes I wake and my player has nearly exhausted the hundreds of versions it has of the tune and is playing the one by the Russian on a theremin.

And I wonder how one might make music in the vacuum between Iapetus and Earth.