18 April 1998
Fado, fado

Fado, fado another day in Paris the city of lights of love burning in the evening the night before having had a sit down meal of cheese pizza and Perrier in a grimy French pub/café people playing pool in the front room alone after a day of the Louver courtyard falling in love with stone granite faces breasts sighs thighs the color of golden light tracing each lamp post darkened copper and polished or but now one day later images of Rodin dancing in my mind “the Secret” an ultimate image of passion the intimate touch of two right hands formed in marble speak to me of fingers hands meet as two pilgrim lips meet my Shakespearean love song eulogy modern art of delunay Edward munch the cry the depression the death of marat tell me de sade of how marat was killed the dagger in her hard and the inmates crying wailing about the play production mary with her unborn child violent blood reds rich ruah red my words for the color in our veins in my hair in the tears of the vampires that look from outside our precious precocious scenes post nationalist post modern post post modern post me a letter from paris the next day before I visit the Louver inside to have my panic attack in 14th century Italy oh mona lisa why do you distract so many with a wry smile seen on the statuary of ancient Mesopotamia the smile I’ve seen on my own face before so many times before this day the last day of Mars the last day to March on march forth black adder a snake in the mind of the BBC enter the auxiliary characters myself and thousands of tourists to a play that has been in production 1000 years in the making an eternity in the wings enter center stage to the scene a wide expanse of open pavement four thousand tourists gathered outside the church of myth mystery novels of the hunchback and esmerelda covered now with the scaffolds iron prison of reconstruction marble face lift been waiting to see the eyes the very eyes of Notre Dame for so many years and now upon seeing it those eyes are veiled try again in a few more years just a few more years not so many given the cathedral’s lifetime I goth street punk spiked hair Carolina boots no thoughts of the caroline left behind as the floral print crème head scarf is thrown on head down and back to pay my respect the sign before I enter proclaiming *please be quiet* no hats* please remove your hats* and 100 frat boys from the states go inside their caps proclaiming red skins and fighting irish my camera bag and coat thrown back onto my right shoulder crossing myself in an old symbol long before crypts bloods the prayers used over the crypts of old and inside lines follow this way miss until I look up jaw dropping as each panel of light colored by the rose window enters my view pathways of st. john mother mary full of grace no need for that precious parking space giant paintings and carved statuary everywhere a holy place so infinitely glamorous and sacred to the catholic mind with Japanese Italian French American tourist one by one with flash photography video camcorder watch the people praying aren’t they funny so slowly I made my way make my way to joan of arc forgiven by the church and proclaimed a saint after having been burned at the stake as a harlot witch flames crisping frying my skin flesh as one knee at a tie drops onto the red old padded cushion and arms rest upon old oak before the closest thing I could find to an independent woman in the catholic church in a positive light and with eyes pressed shut I pray for strength on my journey pray not to hit the man from Taiwan who’s using flash flash Gordon photography pray for safety pray for a discovery in my relationships pray eyes tight for direction in my religious life and opening my eyes drop fancs into the metal box as I light a candle say thanks to joan and my our fathers in a slow English clear under my breath looking up to see so many tourists tourists pointing at angels colored lights gold jesus gold mary gold ancient oak stained polished wood everywhere listening as songs are sang in old latin *did you get a photo of that* did they photograph capture on film my prayers to a god who listens only on occasion and I hold myself back from decking screaming at the old asian woman with the video camera whos trying to zoom in on the people praying waiting for evening mass to be said but slowly I decide instead to join those waiting for mass tears in my eyes w/ the beauty of the cathedral Notre Dame Notre Dame the night lady how right they never named you for looking out stained glass I am reminded of my theory on light that each religion is purple Catholicism red Buddhism yellow green wicca but through each pane pain of glass faith all you are truly looking at is the light of the sun above light the language colors of love