MANICHAEAN
10-10-2019, 11:52 AM
Wednesday night was rough when he awoke. He could not put his finger on it exactly, just deep unease. He pulled the sheets, damp from sustained sweating tighter around his upper torso. Minutes later and rolling over to the other side of the bed, the crisp freshness of linen unslept in, gave a temperory reprise. The window overlooking the rear yard of the hotel was open and a Rome predawn awakening was as yet some hours off.
Outside in the Via Guilia one of the less fortunate bedded down on the cold uncompromising steps of the adjacent Santa Maria del Suffragio.
The Christ was inside behind heavy metal studded doors, whilst humanity lay by the front door. A feline passed on its regular nocturnal hunt, giving but a cursory glance, through unfeeling eyes at mortal existence.
Inside and located on the first floor of the Indigo Hotel, the occupant was still uneasy. Words inside his head became sentences, then were adapted. All the strings of the last few days were being remorselessly drawn into thoughts that would not succumb to sleep; the purity of being alone in Rome among crowds, solitary in thought; devotions in church side chapels, unable to communicate coherently to those encountered. The story he so wanted, the journey he so wrestled for was there, suffused like cold travertine frescoes, incapable of articulation.
Perchance to revive an experience, beyond the barren plateau of the intangible.
The initial objective had been to offer prayers for three girls he knew with cancer symptoms. If all roads lead to Rome; per se, benediction and cure a possibility?
But as he had progressed for three days, from church to church sustaining supplications on the behalf of others, he became increasingly aware of his own frailty in this final stage of existence. Transient glimpses of a dehumanised crucified Christ in side alters evoked deep wells of emotion. Then, at the church of St Maria del Popolo, the works of Raphael, Cacaravaggio, Carracci, Pinturicchio & Bernini broke the seal of his self control; and his initial aims, became but minor tributaries of an internal river he had until now been unaware of.
Light rain besmirched the dust on building facades into tear shaped streaks; whilst dark cobblestones in narrow thoroughfares exuded a reflective shine of the moons' intermittent break through grey dull clouds. Two streets along, from the west of where he lay, the Tiber gently flowed in its centuries old path, to meet its fulfilling and unalterable embrace with the sea.
Outside in the Via Guilia one of the less fortunate bedded down on the cold uncompromising steps of the adjacent Santa Maria del Suffragio.
The Christ was inside behind heavy metal studded doors, whilst humanity lay by the front door. A feline passed on its regular nocturnal hunt, giving but a cursory glance, through unfeeling eyes at mortal existence.
Inside and located on the first floor of the Indigo Hotel, the occupant was still uneasy. Words inside his head became sentences, then were adapted. All the strings of the last few days were being remorselessly drawn into thoughts that would not succumb to sleep; the purity of being alone in Rome among crowds, solitary in thought; devotions in church side chapels, unable to communicate coherently to those encountered. The story he so wanted, the journey he so wrestled for was there, suffused like cold travertine frescoes, incapable of articulation.
Perchance to revive an experience, beyond the barren plateau of the intangible.
The initial objective had been to offer prayers for three girls he knew with cancer symptoms. If all roads lead to Rome; per se, benediction and cure a possibility?
But as he had progressed for three days, from church to church sustaining supplications on the behalf of others, he became increasingly aware of his own frailty in this final stage of existence. Transient glimpses of a dehumanised crucified Christ in side alters evoked deep wells of emotion. Then, at the church of St Maria del Popolo, the works of Raphael, Cacaravaggio, Carracci, Pinturicchio & Bernini broke the seal of his self control; and his initial aims, became but minor tributaries of an internal river he had until now been unaware of.
Light rain besmirched the dust on building facades into tear shaped streaks; whilst dark cobblestones in narrow thoroughfares exuded a reflective shine of the moons' intermittent break through grey dull clouds. Two streets along, from the west of where he lay, the Tiber gently flowed in its centuries old path, to meet its fulfilling and unalterable embrace with the sea.