I have a healthy fear of Parisians, a logical skepticism of any city built over tunnels of bones. I believe the monuments act as giant conduits of energy, the arch ways, portals. The towers and obelisks act as tuning forks to something peculiar. I can respect a city that honors the sky, with it's neatly manicured rooftops and long windows. I hear Paris used to be inhabited by celts, long before its catacombs. It has uprising in it's infrastructure, in it's appreciation of protests, and the way the dead seem to rise out of the narrow streets. It’s sly snobbery has made good art. I respect a place that overthrows monarchy, and I used to think God would never ordain Kings, but now I am not so sure.
Mary Magdalene's ley line runs thick through this city, and it's felt. Like a great beating artery. It wakes me up early and keeps me up late.It runs beneath the Lourve, reaches Rome, extending all the way to Rose Bowl Pasadena. I believe it begins in Northern Ireland. Monuments to her are resurrected in great detail with eerie subtlety, and if you weren't looking, you'd probably miss it. These prominent statues feel unclean, misunderstood, bitter. The energy is so feminine that french men act like bitches. Empathic, so everyone eats facing the street. Thick with unprocessed grief, so everyone smokes.
We stayed next to a crypt for religious matyrs, a tomb for the priests who died for rebelling against the vatican. Purely coincidental, of course. I break in and ask them for help. There are statues of lions and fountains that seem to bleed secrecy, gold plated angels and ceilings that tell stories. It's humid, as we slip into a lul of predictable debauchery. The boys in their little outfits, me maniacally resolving to trek through every religious site and speak to it. We wear wreaths of jasmine and chainsmoke outside ancient buildings. I am asking for help. I imagine congregating an army. I work for an omnipresent absentee boss, and I listen to intuitive nudges with the astute certainty of a skitzophrenic. I make mistakes that work in my favor.
I weave through old fashioned perfumeries, religious galleries and underground sex clubs. Past fruit vendors and vintage markets. With the diligent footsteps of a devotee of heartache. Everything is haunted. Including me.