2.4 – Being There

It is Autumn. Rigid, brown houses made into grid-like form, standard, so mundane and like any other town. Nothing special. Alleyways dark and disapproving of the people who stay out till the early hours of the morning, windows glare and the pipes wind themselves over the skin of townhouses. Wind blows heavy heaps of bright yellow yarrow and auburn red leaves from their place on the ground. The cathedral stands proud, crude boney fingers mock and reprimand the crowd below milling about the old stone steps. Tall, never ending arches framing the wooden oak door flatten the souls of all who dare to enter and do not belong. Through the large doors, crosses stare from the walls. Damning. Condemning. Blaming. Rows of wooden pews stand soldier still, posted for the seating of religious peoples, incense already burning bright. Short confessions ended with a quick amen, echo from the mouth of a priest. Melodies start to drift like the leaves outside, reverberating from the mouths of the men and women standing in neat rows.

Look. The people, like walking dead, sway to the haunting music. Men and women dressed in their finery move their lips in silent prayer. Eyes that no longer hold life look to the brightly coloured ceilings that carry half naked angels and golden trumpets of holy triumph. Beautifully intricate designs snake their way around pillars, strangling stone birds, while alluring angels brush their wings along the edge of heaven. Below, the people stand in perfect silence, obedience straining their faces; death, to them, does not exist, not true death anyway. It is seen in the way they smile even when their life isn’t what it should be. Bold, echoing footsteps lead the eyes of children away from the front of the teaching hall. A young man walks towards the doors with a look of smug triumph plastered on his face, his walk confident as he strolls down the center aisle of the cathedral. Trailing eyes filled with judgement and insults follow him to the door, showing that even the holy cannot control their sins.

It is Sunday morning. Clouds dark. Cold wind plays outside. Hallelujah whispered from enough lips that it speaks as far as the high bodices and alluring looks of scantily dressed girls calling out prices of quick pleasure. Expectation hangs in the air like lightning waiting for thunder, like dry kindling waiting for a small spark. A crowd waiting for chaos. Old yellow soap suds stain cobblestones as they flow down open roof pipes from the launders’ room. Whatever happens in the night, the cats and rats with melting tails know, all sins made in an effort to be released from this world. If only for a second. A moment.

Listen. Church silence fills every corner, sin of violence and sensual acts piled up in corners like extra copies of books in old libraries. Bright colours bounce from stained glass windows, pulling pretty petals of invisible flowers from behind curtains. From within the belly of the church comes the loveliest song someone could ever sing, slow and long, the notes dragging emotion from the depths of the passersby. Women on their knees sway with the slow, sickening music of early morning prayer, notes chilling against the walls. A and F minor play sharp as ever. When first heard they seem beautiful and delicate, but now heave a heavy tune, clanging through biting cold halls of the town cathedral. Outside the men dance through the streets with stomping feet and strained voices, encouraged by their late night drinking. They dance for the entertainment of their company and the wooing of the young ladies out for an early stroll. Farmers shout out prices for milk and eggs and other produce, accompanied by indecent yelling at hungry hands that’ve snuck an apple off the shelf. The sun usually makes it over the tops of buildings around midday, dipping into places that are usually dark. When the many faces and cluttered junk piled in brick corners reveals itself from the dark. 

Then you will see the dripping sidewalks and the melting faces of alcoholics on the side of the roads. The young, homeless boy that has never known parents. Delicate fabric of lace worn by women who have no other job but comfort. Below your feet on the worn down cobblestones you can see small imprints of the people who lived before you. The cathedral stands tall and looming above you, nothing special, but commanding nonetheless. A damning presence, but you’re not sure how a building can call forth such emotion. You can still hear the lingering notes of a single flute from the sad lips of a young woman, even though the Sunday morning service is long finished. The cathedral is just a building and the town is just a town like any other, nothing special.