Sunday on Venus
A day on Venus takes 243 earth days, a year 255 earth days. The morning lie-in goes on longer, expanding so you might read War & Peace, no need to rush as time, being so ample — nearly in excess — the bait in its own trap, invites you to linger, to dissolve into the moment like aspirin losing itself as it tumbles through a glass of water, but still, time goes on, dust falls constantly, so it’s a hasty swipe at housework —— the sun’s angle of illumination is so unforgiving at this hour, then you’re mooning around in the hunt, say, for shoes and racquet, the keys of course, but it’s Sunday on Venus, so you’re not late, here your every hour is multiplied by 243, every tennis match extended by this scale, so go easy there’re over two hundred times more serve - volley rushes, an unthinkable number of double faults, till, quite satiated, it’s back home to gardening, where you note the trees too have more time to drop bark and leaves, (indulge me, I know no trees are seen on Venus). The day oozes along, a colloidal mass, only the shadows more defined by the proximate position to that Old Fool. On Venus the loveliness of twilight hangs like a cloth of gold and ruby in the west, heralds the slow closing in of night. The day so generous with its Venetian clock, slides into a night of the same measure. The feeling is the days go on forever but the years, the years, go by so fast.
Feature image via NPS/Patrick Myers