Day 582, February 4, 2022

Service des Monuments Historiques 

In our personal Notre Dame, what would we restore? What will be forsaken? What toxic metals will we painstakingly apply again? Would we bathe the rafters in light reflected through a pool of water? Hand shaped trusses are like the caresses of lovers, each leaving their mark on the green oak. Out of every jumble of debris there is evidence, what was lost, what was miraculously saved. Stained glass windows, photo albums, copper clad apostles, a child’s hand written note. What does it mean to be faithful? The sixty-six pound rooster that nobody could see until it lay like a carcass on the floor of the nave. I have buried chickens and built their cairns out of river stones. Is it alright to throw away this thing, this piece of paper, this object that is so full of meaning? Viollet-le-Duc’s visage upon the shoulders of Saint Thomas. A heavy Rolleiflex camera on a tripod, lights, and a contrived staging. I never liked that pose, too self aware, never my true self, it was too accurate. They test the school children around the ruins for contamination, and so far, it has been negligible. But that is not always true. You cannot wash everything from your skin. People are damaged. These are the decisions an architect has to make. What is true and at the core of one’s belief. Ultimately. The reason for being alive in a particular moment. The tears when they realized what was burning.

July in Paris