ROOM FOR
MORE
Extending both arms, looking skyward, I said
'Buonarotti, come over here.' Michelangelo soon
enough came to me. I asked what he was doing,
and he replied, with a startlingly eye 'I'm painting
on my back! All the time long, this boffo Pope he
makes me do his biddings. With sticks and markers
I first have to line out all the ceilings; while he
watches
he critiques my lines, that ignoramus. Knows nothing
of what I do, or what I want to do, only knows what
he thinks he wants. Ah! His church, it is crap, all
crap, and he's in indulgent hock to his collar; but
then so am I and so I must work, even for a fool
like this.' I agreed with him, saying 'yes, you do
look tired and worn; in fact, you looked stained by
work, the color of brown blood and bad frescoes,
no?' He groaned, to agree - a noise I knew
meant
a certain satisfaction. 'This Julius, this Pope, his
Vatican is a cesspool, a vile vale of corruption
and wicked men. His sisters slander, and the
others - those not in the know - they
just bow
and pray and bend and pretend. Oh woe is me
for just being here alive.' I gave him a chance
to recover and then I spoke : 'Michelangelo, you
are missing the point - this paint, these
ceilings,
all that you do, will live, believe me, will live on,
and
hundreds of years from now people will still be grasping
your name in wonder, and gasping for air as they see
what you've done. You are operating outside of time,
so be glad for all that - nothing works to stop
you,
and all that glory still awaits. Even in your
after-death
moments, people will regale you with tales and stories
of what it is you have done. So, be not restless, and
remain in place. Be still. Settle yourself in. A very
long haul awaits you ahead.'
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