On the moon

Saturday.

Slight hangover from the previous day's party.

Behind the headache, choppy scenes (everyone with feelings in full view on a dance floor, a girl playing the ukulele in the bathroom, luminous fractals, ecstatic tension, a back of creamy skin that made you want to lick) , the return trip with strangers, the house, the bed, the serene sleep.

Sunday morning.

Smooth sky

.

Bread kneaded at home, sweet pears, the passing of the hours, the day like a column of light turning around a harmonic axis.

Little need for movement.

I read this poem by Raymond Carver (

, Anagrama, 2021): “Your brain is an attic in which / things are kept for years / From time to time your face appears / in the roof window.

/ The sad face of a person who was locked up / and they forgot about her”.

(the film about the failed mission to the moon in 1970) is shown on television

and my false memory returns: July 20, 1969, we are in the

from my grandmother's house, we see on the television the first steps of man on the lunar surface.

I remember it perfectly and it's a lie (I can't remember because I was two and a half years old): I'm dressed in white linen and red sandals (that's impossible because it was winter);

my father wears a suit (he never wore a suit).

At night, the man I live with shows me the horror: four years ago, Elon Musk launched a Tesla Roadster into space, a convertible sports car manned by a plastic doll, Starman.

The car orbits 377 million kilometers from Earth.

If the stereo is still operational, has Starman heard

, by Bowie, 270,000 times.

There are videos: the Tesla floats in the dark nothing carrying Starman's horrendous loneliness.

I think: “The doll is alive”.

I feel terror, as if the date of my death had been revealed to me.

Everything is terrifying, supremely beautiful.

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