Billboard-like Moon

Billboard-like Moon

It was a once in a lifetime experience. We all knew that. Not just any lunar eclipse, but a complete, never-seen-before, dark-pitch eclipse with the longest duration ever.

Publicity was everywhere, and at the time we thought –silly us– that it was a good thing to see the myriad ads on the internet, the myriad sponsors arising everywhere, like mushrooms growing on a rotten tree trunk. There they were, all major companies joining a common, non-profit effort. I will omit their names (which is a bit unnecessary, since we have all come to fulfil their wet dream of referring to products with brand names), but they are all guilty of a disgraceful, seemingly victimless crime.

For some weeks before the event, everything that happened felt like a modest triumph: soft drink companies, e-commerce websites, professional sports leagues, celebrities and so-called influencers (none of them political, of course), promoting the aesthetical appreciation of a natural phenomenon. Finally, it seemed to us –silly us–, the world was paying attention. Perhaps, despite all evidence to the contrary, there was indeed a tiny bit of awareness growing in people’s minds, slowly in the beginning, unnoticed, and then rapidly, like germs incubating an infection in a healthy body and later developing into a mortal disease.

Perhaps, we thought, there was after all some sense in our protests and the correlation of repression, incarceration. Not for me, as I always had been nothing but a timid activist, an ordinary citizen who protected his lifestyle, his job, and above all his property (the invisible shackles that kept us all in submission). From time to time, I had participated in some selected actions, the main purpose of which was to appease the sense of guilt of being an ordinary citizen who cared for the environment and all that shit, as long as it did not endanger his integrity, his job, his shackles. There was something changing in western, indolent, consumerist societies, and the time had come for everybody to notice it.

The date finally came. We met early to make a trip to a nearby hill, with our telescopes and all we needed for a night picnic: food, some wine, blankets, music. We had chosen a location where we knew we could have internet signal, as we were as interested in the eclipse as in people’s reaction around the hemisphere.

We were all set about two hours before the eclipse, surrounded by families and groups of friends who were all merry and, it seemed to me, unusually quiet. I would not go as far as to say that they were in awe, but there was a peculiar sensation floating in the air: the anticipation of something profound, significant, maybe bearing the potential of changing one’s life.  

It was all but a dream. A shattered dream.

The moon was a perfect circle on the canvas of the sky. I remember restraining myself from commenting on its size, less it made me look naïve, when, next to me, old Jerry said:

–That is the biggest moon I’ve ever seen in my life.

Jerry was a 60-year-old hippie who rarely spoke, but who was respected and admired by everyone, on account of the stories others (never himself) told about the threats, the beatings, the intimidation he had endured throughout decades of hard-core activism. I looked at him and was a bit mesmerized, as usual, but the expression of his face, which was that of a contented, cheerful retiree who had never experienced any more distress than that caused by occasional shortage of stationary at work.

Then he added something that made perfect sense later on:

–It looks odd, though. Billboard-like.

I soon gave up any attempt to see the perfect circle through my old, battered telescope and just stood there, overwhelmed, watching the reddish moon directly. The final countdown came. You could hear it distinctly in the whispers of the ordinary citizens, who, if only for tonight, care about something else than lifestyle, homes, property. 

For a few minutes we all witnessed a spectacle as old as Earth itself, observed in reverence by prehistory, studied by wise men in ancient civilizations, feared during the Dark Ages, largely ignored by Modern, technology-driven societies. I will make no attempt to describe its grandeur, the confused ecstasy that, I am sure, was shared by people around me, as if we were all part of a unique conscience, one soul…

I will not describe it because what happened next obliterated all previous feelings, mocked our sensitivity. The Earths’ shadow on the moon was just disappearing: a thin, dark crescent. And then, a small irregular dot appeared on the top of the moon, tinting it with an unusual color: red. I remembered reading that lunar eclipses sometimes may give a reddish hue to the moon, but this one was just too bright, too solid. It started growing, and when it was no longer possible to deny what was happening (I guess everybody had been second guessing themselves: “Am I drunk?” “Is there something wrong with my eyes” “Am I the only one who sees it?”) the reaction was complete terror. Silence and fear.

The beginning was slow, but then it caught some speed and there was no doubt about it: the top of the moon was being invaded by a wave of red, and undulating shape that resembled the animations (I never saw the real thing in a microscope at school) of a cell being inoculated with some other organism. And before we could react, another amoeba started inoculating (I remember thinking, “is that even the correct word?”) the moon from the bottom; this one, blue. Not the kind of blue of a starry night, not celestial blue, but more like a bright blue, like the color of a text processor interface, that of a phone company, or a motor company logo… Exactly! It was the exact color of a well-known soft drink logo (I will not mention the names of brands, not after what they did to us, after taking what they took from us all). A wave of red on the top, a wave of blue on the bottom. And a wavy white strip left in the middle. Outrageous!  

How could they manage to project that on the lunar surface? What kind of technology were they using? Was there any limit to their greed and disrespect for everything natural, genuine, sacred?

—At least— I managed to say after nearly choking in my anger— now everybody will hate their guts.  This is invasive! Offensive! And also, vulgar, anti-natural, anti-human...

As an answer, Old Joe gave a sad chuckle.

Later that night, at home, I monitored the social networks to indulge in my just, proud anger. There it was: internauts around the globe cursing the company, insulting their managers in paragraph-long X-rated swearing rants, making vows to never ever drink a soda again, asking how to file a lawsuit against that execrable plea for attention from a company that had been recently condemned for investment frauds, child labor, gender discrimination. And now, this.

As I continued reading, I found a dissenting post at the end of a long thread. It anticipated what was coming next, and would eventually prevail in the public’s opinion. Sometimes I think it was part of the campaign, a grand finale to the first episode of a new kind of advertisement that was to become, after a while, the norm. Its awkwardness, deliberated or not, was pure genius, and it started to shift the perception of those who for a few moments, under the silvery brightness of the moon, were different, pure, but who really, in the end, care for nothing but their lifestyle, their jobs, their property:

—I know you haters will, well, hate me. But I think it was kinda cool. Wonder if they can make it with all colors. Maybe add some text?