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| some mountains, virtually |
It’s 1982.
Madrid, Spain.
If you walk from the city centre, across
one major road, up and down a hill, you will arrive in a small square at the
centre of a residential area that is quickly changing into a centre for fashionable
nightlife.
There are small bars, specialist
restaurants and there is a juggler entertaining a large crowd.
It’s springtime, the night air is warm and
people are laughing.
The crowd disperse and suddenly they notice
a man standing beside a large telescope.
He is looking at the full moon.
People ask if they can look too.
He says yes.
They can see the craters, and the craters
inside the craters.
They can see the relief of the moon’s
mountains.
They can feel it’s bright loneliness.
It’s 2014.
Aimes, France.
Friends are visiting from the north.
It’s Saturday, near to sunset.
One of the visitors takes from his bag a
specialist optical device, part binocular, part telescope.
The friends look at the sun.
They gaze into the raw redness.
They can see hair like threads of flame.
They can see the darker spots of explosion.
I was present and participated at one of
these occasions.
The other I only heard about at the market
the next morning.
The sun and moon.
On one; not the other.
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