Our Lady

I am the spire that stood for 850 years. A beacon of hope, a symbol of faith, a call to God. A steadfast, enduring testament to a greater, unconditional, universal love.

A billion lives have been lived around me. I am a marker from all sides, a destination for some, a sanctuary for others, never changing and ever present to all. I have survived rebellion, revolution, conquest and occupation. I have witnessed violence against the innocents and man’s inhumanity to man.

I bear my own scars, evidence of repair and recovery over decades of existence.

I am beautiful. Magical. Wondrous. Beloved. Admired. Appreciated for my age, my art, and the comfort in my presence. You may not share my faith, yet you’ve known me all your life. I have always been and always will be.

So you thought.

When the flames came too close, when the fire burned too hot, I was consumed. I toppled.

I fell through the roof and disappeared from sight.

Am I no more?

With love, with time, with compassion and support, with my gods’ help, I will stand once more.

Not as I was. I will be changed for the better. I will be stronger. Brighter. Built to code for a world bent on grinding me to dust.

My purpose remains though my remains be gone.

Avec plus d’amour,

To Be in Paris

I’ve heard it said that when you ask yourself a question, your heart will answer immediately and honestly. One morning I picked up John Taylor’s autobiography to look for a particular reference, and got lost with him in the mid-80s when he was buying property all over the world. Eventually, he said, he gave up on the “perfume bottle real estate thing” he had going— John Taylor of London, Paris & New York—and finally settled in Los Angeles.

A step down, if you ask me.

The question I asked myself, just for fun, was of the three big cities, in which one would I choose to live? The answer came in the next beat:

Paris.

???

Quelle surprise? I think not. Considering how my new favourite tea is Murchie’s “Paris Afternoon” (thanks, Ter!), I listen most often to the Paris Café channel at jazzradio.com, and I have a thing for Musketeers, it’s hardly a surprise at all. Must be the romantic in my soul—or perhaps a memory from another life, where I am almost certain I got into trouble with a gang of dissolute artists, musicians and poets.

Ironically, I am not a fashion plate. I do not wear French perfume. I would never drive a Citroen, and when I think of red-white-and-blue, the Union Jack pops to mind. I do, however, adore champagne, baroque architecture, and sidewalk cafés.

While in my early twenties, I spent a few days in Paris. My companion was a native so language was no barrier, but I was too young to appreciate where I was for what it was. I visited the Louvre, was unimpressed by the Mona Lisa, took the train to Versailles and blew a whole roll of film on the statue of Neptune Rising from the Sea, ate street food because the restaurants were too expensive, and discovered the joy of Perrier Citron (mineral water with a shot of lemon cordial), though the café waiter was rude and I later found out why: tips were automatically added to the bill, so there goes the incentive to be well-mannered with the tourists.

Mind you, the Parisians are kind of notorious for dishing ʼtude at foreigners. They’ll warm up if you try to speak French—the worst thing you can ask off the bat is “Parlez-vous Anglaise?”—and the whole world has been advised of how immigrants are perceived by the nation as a whole, but still, it’s an elegant, magical, beautiful, romantic, noisy, bustling city of light, art and culture and I would definitely do it differently if I had it to do again.

Or maybe I’ll just live there again in my next life.