West Handed

The moon, waning one day past full, is rising behind the Starbucks across the street. This doesn’t feel right. Last night at around this time, it was shining bright through my bedroom window keeping me awake. That window faces east and — I’m hesitating here while I get my bearings — I’m facing south. Santa Clara takes a bend somewhere between here and home, but that (plus the daily shift in the moon’s course as the Earth’s rotation overtakes — or falls behind — the moon’s revolution) doesn’t seem like it’s enough of a shift to explain the difference between the positions of yesterday’s and today’s moons.

I lost my sense of direction when I moved to the Bay Area. When tasked with knowing what direction I’m going, I must turn my body so that the hills are to my right and The Bay to my left, so that I’m facing north. Then I’m able to draw the other compass points in my head.

It may be the Bay Bridge’s fault. In my head, it runs parallel to the Golden Gate Bridge.

It seems now that the moon is actually setting. I’m having trouble even with up and down.