I was five.
I remember watching a tv show involving puppets of children of multiple nationalities wherein the Native character told some other character about the “Feathers on the Moon.” He said it like it was super deep. An audio file of “The Feathers on the MOOON,” is forever carved into my mind along with other memory-junk of my life, such as screen caps of Biker Mice From Mars and a video loop of the co-ed shower scene in Stormship Troopers.
Story goes people made the moon and the sun from giant rocks & feathers and raised them into the sky. The sun made it to the sky just fine and so its feathers were out and proud. The moon was a bit more of a fuckstick and needed the wind to help it up, which caused the feathers to blow onto the surface.
As a child, I interpreted the story a bit more literally than the, I’m assuming, publicly-funded kids show intended. I thought it made sense based off of what evidence I could gather — every time I drew a sun it looked like a yellow stone with orange feathers protruding from it. EVERY TIME. It was like a science.
Also the moon did look like it had something blurry on it. It could have been feathers. How could I know, I didn’t get glasses until a year later.
So, now every time I see a vividly bright moon in the sky, I always think about the feathers on the mOOOn.
Because I was a dumb kid.