Some things are a question of faith, and some things are a matter of science. Wandering through my back yard at night, looking up at the glowing ball above me (as it whispers and beacons to lovers and wolves whom I have never met), one fact rises above the quagmire of doubt and debate to rap me smartly over the nose with a ruler of common sense: the moon is undoubtedly made of green cheese.
You may well laugh, but I ask you (with a haunted, greenish gaze): can you disprove it?
I look up in the sky, and I see a floating, holey, greenish ball. It’s not always greenish, admittedly. Often, it is more white, but if I look at it long and hard enough (particularly if I squint so that I am looking thorough my lashes), it definitely can have a greenish cast. It inevitably has a spongy character.
I have heard the arguments that the moon is a massive ball of rock floating around out there in space. I have read reports written by men who claim to have been there. Unfortunately, however, I have had to ignore these reports, based on a simple, obvious fact. I have never met any of these men, as opposed to the opinions I have had from dozens of individuals (men, women, and children) I have met personally who have all conceded that, yes, the moon does bear a striking resemblance to the h’ors d’oeurves. I have never been to the moon, and yet I have felt its chilly light fall across my skin with much the same aire (if not quite the same effect) as the chill of my refrigerator light when I open the door in the middle of the night. What have we become, if after millions of years of evolution, we are expected to accept the “evidence” of a few mysterious characters of dubious objectivity, over the simple observations of the masses?
I have traveled to the Smithsonian Museum in Washington, D.C. and touched the piece of “rock” which, it is claimed, was once part of the moon itself. I went with every intention of open-mindedness, in the simple spirit of setting my possibly unfounded fears to rest for once and for all. I am sorry to report, that rock looks nothing like the moon that I can see from here. Far be it from me to promote some kooky conspiracy theory, but I simply cannot discount the evidence of my eyes.
You can look up at the moon tonight, if you choose to do so. Really, really look at it. Perhaps you will see a faint, glowing aura around it, as I sometimes do. Comparing this aura with everything in my subjective experience, I can see that it bears a striking resemblance to a piece of cheese left uneaten for too long. Note the mysterious holes and pits along its surface. Now go to your refrigerator, and pull out that chunk of Swiss you have had hiding under the baloney. Hold it up. Any fool can see the similarity.
I don’t know why we have been lied to for so long, but the evidence is up there for all to see. Sometimes we are just blinded by the desire for the universe to be rational, the need to understand. Perhaps the moon being made of cheese just doesn’t fit in with our notions of stars as masses of incandescent gas, burning at temperatures of millions of degrees (fondue, anyone?)…perhaps we couldn’t handle the concept that some day the aliens would come and cart our moon off for their midday snacks. Did we need the moon to be a cold and unfeeling ball of rock, simply so that we could all go to bed on time, rather than laying out on blankets, limbs entwined, watching and waiting for the moment when it would fall and our unceasing hunger would be assuaged? Perhaps we did.
I, however, am ready to face the truth. Tonight, as I wander outside with my blanket and my crackers, I will gaze up at the moon and revel in its resplendent bounty. I will lick my lips and imagine which piece I will send to the starving children in Africa, which piece goes to the starving mice in my basement, and which pieces will go to everyone I have ever truly loved. I will lie flat on my back in contentment, knowing that inevitably, some small portion of the moon is meant for me.