Big moon

These should be the happiest days of our lives, knowing we are living in a time that will be written about later.

And not only written about but filmed, and not only filmed but followed on social media.

"Think about it," my friend C____ says, "the Incas are dead." He's talking about the sweep of history: that 500 years ago or so a civilization flourished in the Andes of which there are now mostly only architectural remnants. It's C's way of distancing himself from the marvels of impermanence by grounding it in history--"the Incas were ravaged by smallpox," he says, not only bringing the sad story of the Incas up-to-date but giving it context even I can relate to.

Pinch me! I'm so lucky to be alive, and I know I am! I have time now to trace the direct line from Machiavelli to Cromwell and to learn more than I ever knew about oceanography: that everything is connected at the bottom of that invisible, unreliable, unexplored region--the sea.

In lockdown I'm starting to award myself bonus points for the number of exclamation points I use in a block of text. It's my way of taking an interest in the world, showing appreciation for the largesse it's shown me, and conveying to readers my enthusiasm for what the present time's bequeathed.

I hadn't realized until the lockdown began that what's interesting at 9 am is so often not interesting after 2 pm, that the news cycle now has a shorter and shorter shelf-life. The gestation period of what qualifies as vital information is often turned into popular entertainmenst--Dr. Sanjay Gupta demonstrating how to wash one's hands or Ricky Gervais grieving, on the couch looking yet again at another video of his dead wife while drinking red wine--to be binge-watched between the hours of 6 to 10. The words, The following is intended for mature audiences preface every news bulletin, every tv show.There's a new government in Iraq. Democracies all over the world are taking bullets in the back. The presidential election in Poland is being delayed. Another black man's been killed by firearms in the American South, this time by two white men, a father and son team...

I hang the phone up on C____. We've both become long-winded, holding the phone away from our ear as the other spoke, saying to the other once in awhile, 'uh huh', or 'yea' in order to keep the other talking, knowing the other will do the same. It seems we're too old for Zoom, having tried it once or twice and not liking the electronic distance it created in our intimacy. One's mouth opens and a word comes out, and then another word and another until a complete sentence arrives with the sense that it's been scrubbed or disinfected and so has lost its original meaning.

Certain technologies are simply too amazing for me, my comfort level is so easily exceeded. I associate most technologies with famine, pestilence, massacre, power, malfeasance, war when I just as easily could associate technology with progress, enlightenment, a blessing, the gift from the gods.

 C____ asks, "what are you reading?" I tell him I'm reading a doorstop, that it's keeping the door open, it's a big doorstop full of history that's slowly turning into a real book. 'Huh?' he says.

Benn's phrase: History in its wonderfully equalizing justice. A whole show could be done about history, a 20-part series, an episode for each century. I'd watch even if I know how it ends: with the Big Moon coming out to look down on us and asking, who are these creatures?