The Finger

The ceiling falling, sudden, like a silk scarf, bought at the museum shop, Michelangelo’s sublime Sixteen Chapel ceiling drifting down to us, Adam extending a languid, effete hand, God’s finger outstretched, his muscled arm—excuse me, you’re right: it’s the Sistine, not the Sixteen Chapel, which nagging correction has understandably hindered us fully inhabiting the scene, which if I run back and set drifting again seems now a bit forced, artificial, and tugging with it new troubles—Sistine, certainly Sistine, but where does that get us? It could be the family name of the chapel’s patron, if chapels had patrons, the neighborhood in Rome, unless we mean Florence, unless we mean the Vatican, the diocese or some other Catholic designation beyond what we could reasonably guess at—and now we simply must look it up, while the proper object of our curiosity, viz. the ceiling, falling, drifts closer overhead, Adam’s languor, in the circumstance, viz. being approached by the hand of God, hinting now at our own lassitude, our own complacence before an eternity like an endless barcode all black but for an inch of pattern in the middle, our own unique identity or individuality, which we can’t help feeling will be scanned at checkout, and what will we be worth if misgivings such as these continue to pull us away, as Michelangelo’s stupendous firmament, we notice, has fallen further, and somehow faster, Adam’s flaccid reception of the divine touch, the august personification of God himself—but perhaps we should think carefully about imbuing with such power the figure of a white man, a middle-aged, bearded white man at that, with, evidently, the privilege to cultivate his creativity, his physique, and could that be a pedicure—but where did that foot go, where the hand, and what is this sudden, silken weight? Of course. I’d like to spend all day and night lofting the ceiling over us until we’re ready to sustain the scene without trepidations, diversions, interruptions, but it’s late, they’re sweeping around my table, counting the till, and now I feel a finger, politely, firmly, tapping me.