I wouldn’t know what to look for in a moon rock — I don’t know the signs of life. Consider this a gift guide for aliens, for those who might someday wonder at the remains of our landscapes, seeking memories in the presence of water and carbonate deposits, in the scattered molecules that formed a bone, or maybe an ear.
[Clockwise from top left: Beep Beep satellite poster from RevoltingLtdDesign; Vintage chrome sputnik lamp from GallivantingGirls; Lines/rain pouch from bookhouathome; Raku horsehair vase from earthtoartceramics; Silver braided horsehair bracelet from imsilverhorsehair; Bone cuff bracelet from decomp]
The samples they brought back with them from the moon don’t look like much: just rocks and dirt, stuff that was once something else. There’s nothing smaller than dust, really — nothing we can touch — but there are elemental traces of great tragedies, of implosions and super bright flashes, of thoughts never finished, of the end of worlds.
[Clockwise from top left: Coral studded wood bangle from weltenbuerger; Nebula print silk scarf from pillarsofcreation; 1963 moon globe from SwitchbladeandCookie; Dimple Lim steel blue strap tunic from ohmplayground; Hungarian tin rocket wind-up toy from ThreeStepsAhead; 1940s lapis lazuli arrow brooch from adinantiquejewelry]
Ten years after the fourteenth moon mission, they determined that lunar dust isn’t harmful to life on earth and let the rocks out of quarantine, at which point they promptly ejected killer spores and took over the planet. Just kidding. They sat there, like rocks. Tiny particles broke off to mix with dryer lint and cat hair, blown by air currents into the atmosphere and into rays of sunlight.
[Clockwise from top left: Heavy wool shawl from Ramenzombie; Vintage needlepoint wallet from SLSVintage; Copper glaze coil built bowl from DeBaunFineCeramics; Hammered brass hoops from dinosaurtoes; Vintage midcentury studio pottery from SansEpoch; Vintage 80s espadrille flats from lapoubellevintage; Pop art yellow lamp from JBHoffman]
I can’t wait to be a moon rock: bits of something that was never really me mixed with bits of whatever else, broken up into pieces approaching infinity and nothingness. To those who discover our microcosmic remains: May our dust tell you nothing; may you let us disappear.