It rolls up like a marble over the grey wasteland of the moon.
And Frank Borman, commander of Apollo 8, first man in outer space, the man who says that no, he didn’t tell his family what it was like up there when he came back, he was too busy catching up on the nitty-gritties of family life; the astronaut who says that weightlessness is boring, and puking in outer space the same it is at home: uncomfortable; the space hero who’s never seen and can’t recall the title of Space Odyssey; who says the Star Trek motto To boldly go where no man’s gone before does nothing for him – the most prosaic man to leave the soil of this blue planet says: Hand me a roll of color quick, would you?
A beautiful blue marble, swirls of ochre and white, it rolls up over the grey wasteland of the moon. We wake up on it every morning.
That August night in 1328 Luigi Gonzaga brought to Mantua an ache the size of a city and a dagger for Rinaldo Bonacolsi. Gonzaga had a mission: he saw nine hundred gilded rooms he and his line must build and fill with all of Europe’s art – a model city floating on four lakes, a Mount Olympus rising from the flatness of the valley of the Po.
We only ever truly see what we are missing.
Today we visited Gonzaga’s vision: the palaces, the frescoes, statues, tapestries, churches and squares in all their glory and grandezza. I was appreciative – but I’m afraid it did not touch me. We’d brought a different emptiness to Mantua; and since it’s true we only ever see what we are missing –
War. Poverty. Extinction. Plagues ancient and plagues modern. Abuse of children, women. Global warming. Exploitation. Genocide. The horsemen of the Apocalypse are riding.
Gradations of blue in hill after hill at dusk. A man, a woman, laughing in the street. The casual kindness of a stranger. The smell of bread baking. A candle in a window. A blackbird’s song. Piano scales. You.
so somewhere in China
a new kind of virus breeds
they say bats are involved
and open markets and now
it spreads and breeds
new verbs so now we’re
with the best of them
and all out of face masks
and the shelves empty of bog rolls
surely someone somewhere
must be sitting on millions of them
taking a gleeful crap
in the lap of luxury
the selfish asshole
and in the twilight
you walk the dog
the blinds are down and
the shutters closed
provoking medieval visions
how they’re all lying dead
behind those blind windows but
the day was absurdly clear and bright
and there’s a golden moon in the sky
and one golden star