So it was announced today that Pluto is no longer a planet and, in the process, our solar system has shrunk from nine celestial bodies to eight. Somehow, while our own world continues to get larger and more complex, our universe just got a little smaller.
Pluto's still there of course, all frosty and glittering in the dark envelope of space, still wobbling its cold way around a weak sun, but now it makes its way across the sky as a "Dwarf Planet," not exactly a moniker that lends itself to grand dreams of snowy aliens and ice castles.
When I was young enough to still dream galactically, I would think about Pluto a lot. A dark, rogue, inhospitable place too cold to sustain life: It seemed a perfect place for a hideout when the space wars began. When the shit went down, Pluto was our Hoth: our sub-zero hiding place; our place to construct the snow speeders and pulse rifles for the inevitable invasion by the hulking machines of the empire.
Now, older and focused towards the ground instead of the sky, it seems important to still dream of an earth-born Pluto: a place to hide out, to regroup, to plan for the inevitable. It seems that, as the world continues its aching descent into World War 3, we need Pluto more than ever.
