| the confession |
[Mar. 16th, 2003|03:42 pm] |
| [ | lost generation |
| | lazy, the true american way | ] |
| [ | one for the floorflushers |
| | yesterday//the beatles | ] |
paris:
i am one of hundreds of american tourists who pass through the notre dame every day. but i get this feeling, instantly and very singularly, that i am the one who needs to repent and pray for our country.
maybe it's the reverence that everyone agrees on when entering a church, so quiet and focused that even our sneakers would be embarassed to squeak. maybe it's the hundreds of candles on pyramid-shaped stands, the flames gently swaying back and forth, then dancing manically when the air is disturbed by a passerby. maybe it's the round stained glass windows above me, purple and blue and white and green, like the inside of a kaliedescope projected for all to see. maybe it's the fact that i am a non-religious person from a country that seems to lust after war standing in a church in the country that most adamantly seems opposed to the war. maybe it's the image in my mind of damage and violence so horrific that nothing this beautiful would be left standing if we keep going in the direction we are headed.
whatever the feeling is, i know i must honor it. for a split second i am tempted to go into the huge plastic confessional booth with the waiting priests. they look bored, reading magazines, waiting for the next sinner to step up. there are signs with their names and flags representing which languages they speak. not surprisingly, father garcia speaks espanol.
but what would i confess?
"bless me father, for i have sinned."
"how long has it been since your last confession, my child?"
"considering i'm not catholic...i haven't had a last confession."
"i see. and what sins have you committed?"
"i come from an insatiably capitalist country, and i live a comfortable, gluttonous, naive life. is that a sin?"
the confessional looks like less of an option. i wander over to the candle pyramids, transfixed by the jittery luminescence. there is a wooden box with a slit in the top asking for the suggested donation of two euro. next to that box are more boxes, cardboard, overflowing with tiny white tea candles. i rifle through my wallet for a two euro coin. not finding one, i decide just to clear out all my change, and i dump all of the coins in the box. it sounds like the opening of the pink floyd song "money". i take the nearest tea candle, and stand before the tiny fires. i light my candle on the already burning one nearest to me. and i watch the wick turn black as it catches. and i watch my flame get tiny first, and then get the gust of oxygen it needs to be brave, and grow bigger. i watch it dance and flicker. i think of the notre dame, and this flame as a fixed point. i think of the crazy world spinning all around us. and i pray for those people.
i realize then that i am also praying for myself, and my future in that world.
how typically american of me.
i put my candle on the pyramid with all the others. all the other prayers and hopes and wishes and dreams. i have the perverse urge to blow them all out, like a giant birthday cake.
i don't think any of them have a shot. |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
redhoney's journal