Padua's first blogger was a friar. AD 1326.
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I could go back in time. Not to change anything—I'm not that presumptuous—but to take notes.
This is one of those posts. We are in Padua, the first Sunday of May 1326. The city is in the hands of Marsilio da Carrara, Cangrande della Scala is blowing on his back, the Pope is comfortable in Avignon and I—reincarnated in a certain Brother Richard, already a novice, now a simple drinker of sour wine — I decided to start a blog.
It's called Chronica Inutilium. It comes out every Sunday. It has zero followers. But the ink is cheap. And all in all, things haven't changed that much...
CHRONICA INUTILIUM
Sheets written by Fra Riccardo, once a novice of Sant'Agostino, now a simple drinker of sour wine
To anyone who finds these sheets posted near the door of the Red Ox tavern, near the Hall: know that this Chronicle is a sheet of free thoughts, penned every Sunday by a cleric who has seen too much and believed too little. It is not an ecclesiastical document, it is not a petition to the Lord, it is not a prophecy. It is simply what a man writes when he still has ink and is not yet sleepy. Read it. Or don't read it. To Brother Richard, in all honesty, it matters very little.
From Marsilio Carrariensis: five reasons why this Lord always has a happy face
Die Dominica, prima Maii, Anno Domini MCCCXXVI — Padua Civitas
This morning I woke up with a broken back and a thought as clear as the waters of the Bacchiglione on a rainy day: I own nothing, and Marsilio da Carrara owns everything. This meditation, though not original, has the virtue of precision.
Passing in front of the Hall - which the learned call Palatium Rationis and the powerful simply call "my house, quickly" - I saw the Carraresi banner. It was waving with great boastfulness, or with that calm arrogance that only those who don't have to worry about the price of bread have.
So I took up my pen. Praise be to God, or whoever else wants to take credit.
First reason: he has the city in his power.
Not spiritually. Not metaphorically. Materially. The roads are his, the bridges are his, the guards are his, and—it's important to emphasize—even the tavern where I'm writing is his. So I urge you not to read these pages aloud near prying ears.
I call this condition gaudium maximae proprietatis — the joy of those who ponet from the best place. He ponet, We read. It has always been this way, and it will always be this way. At least as long as the banner holds sway.
Second reason: he has his own follantes.
I coined this term: follantes, from Latin to full, blow wind. Those who follow a lord, amplify his deeds, spread his fame throughout the countryside - even when those deeds do not deserve it much. The main follans Marsilio's friend is Cangrande della Scala, Lord of Verona, who supports him, advises him, and embraces him with such warmth that his ribs ache. Marsilio smiles. Cangrande smiles. I write and wonder who will foot the bill.
Third reason: the Pope is very far away.
John XXII sits in Avignon, in France, busy excommunicating Louis the Bavarian and managing his affairs. papal notifications — solemn missives that travel the tela tota terrarum of the papal messengers, and which no one really reads but everyone pretends to have received with devotion. Ergo: in Padua they govern with relative freed, which the powerful call autonomy and the weak call abandonment.
Fourth reason: the people have allow.
In the squares, people nod when the Carrara procession passes. I asked a few people: no one knows exactly why they nod. It's a habit, a reflex. Like kneeling in church or applauding the jester even when he's not funny. I call this phenomenon consensus artificialis - The placet which costs nothing to the one who gives it and is worth gold to the one who receives it.
Fifth reason: it is the month of May.
This is unassailable. It's May, the sun is mild, the swallows circle the Hall with aristocratic nonchalance. Even I—who lost my wedding ring, my cassock, and my last coin in a bet on a goose—find it difficult to be entirely misanthropic in this. morning of spring.
Marsilio smiles because it is May, because he has power, because he has follantes, because the Pope is far away and because the people allow.
I smile instead because I still have ink.
And as long as there's ink, there's hope for trouble.
Brother Richard puts down his pen, considers the jug empty,
and decides that the cell, after all, can wait a little longer.
Thank God. Or almost.
Digital creative, musician, and storyteller. I explore the intersection of humanity and technology, telling stories of AI, music, and real life. Welcome to my organized mess.”
