The Medieval in the Modern

When Brandi and I got married, we went to Italy on our honeymoon. Brandi planned the trip. While my talent lies in cramming as much gear and furniture in a moving van, I am far surpassed in Tetris-like mastery by her ability to embed events into a vacation. We traveled to Venice, Rome, Pompeii, past Pisa (no time to stop), Cinque Terre and back to Venice to stay in Marco Polo's childhood home. In a country steeped in history, our favorite was the furthest in the past, Pompeii. We wandered excavated ruins for hours. Yes, the plaster casts of people and dogs are tragic. Ancient Roman porn decorating brothel walls is hilarious and... educational. Some Roman columns were made of brick covered in cement. 

We brought along a book of overlays. You could see the crumbled walls as they stood, squares restored to a geometric clarity realistic only if they had a VERY efficient garbage collection service. 

I like to overlay New York City with its past self, when the narrow streets of Greenwich Village reflected an actual village unto itself. Before fire blasted across close tenements, necessitating the creation of wide streets as gulfs too wide for flames to leap across. When cathedrals dwarfed the lesser abodes of their worshippers scattered at their feet like stone supplicants. 

The function of height now, on this island where everything and nothing is in reach, depending on the price you're willing to pay, is to stack more people, to cram in things and ideas, to treat the space between buildings as virgin territory to exploit and conquer. Height in my imaginary overlay serves as hope. The copper spire rising above the neighbors' chimneys inspires godliness (even if there are occasional unfavorable comparisons to a certain language-challenged Tower of yore) and faith in something larger. 

I suppose you could argue that you will find a similar awe in the structures of today. You certainly can't rewind the clock without massive suffering. I feel sad, though, that such striking beauties lie smothered behind blank brick walls and concrete facades stained with decades of industrial strength pollution, graffiti and thoughtless choices necessitated by relentless capital pressure. 

Someday--perhaps after a disaster, but more likely given the resilience of the human race through a reassembly of the patchwork of historical evidence we have saved--future people might reassemble a snapshot of present day life. Just as the overlays of Pompeii present only the wildest speculation of ancient Roman life, there will be gaps, some large enough to drive a church through. Our task now might be framed as a link from past to the future, ever balanced on the knife's edge between enormities, but aware that, like church and buildings alike, they exist for us.