THE MIDDLE AGES

First of all, they didn’t think they were. Middle, that is. It was a little like Y2K —the world was going to end. Painters were creating forewarnings of monstrous beauty, the heavens dark blue and aswirl with bright-pointed stars and the unfurling wings of seraphim, the hungering mouths of the many-headed Beast. In their paintings the world was always yellow, no longer habitable, teeming with multi-legged vermin, oddly gorgeous. At the bottom, hell, bright red. Hell brimmed with excitement. That was where Mystery, Babylon The Great, The Mother Of Harlots lived, arrayed in purple and scarlet and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, and having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations. There were always three layers to provide a complete picture, fulfilling the prophesy. For the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea. Except it wasn’t the end. It was the middle. And maybe not even that—maybe closer to the beginning, as far as human beings are concerned. We’re always so busy measuring things. It is so much more glamorous to be at the beginning of things or at the end of them. First you think you can see everything, and then you know you can’t. In the Middle Ages they didn’t think they were going to keep on going. The angels had opened all seven of the vials and out came the plagues. What next, everyone thought. There was the moon. There was the little hillside dotted with sheep.