porkyandthemob

David lay unconscious on the sofa.  A large crucifix hung on the wall over him.  Lightning flashed outside, the light sparkled through the small window opposite from him.  The window was also stained-glass, but very simple.  It was a green tree; the blue sky was its backdrop.  In the foreground was a child sitting against the tree, with a book.  The priest came in to check on him.  Seeing he was still asleep he left, smiling.  He walked out, up the center of the nave, passing benches and seats.  There were hundreds of them.  He stopped at the transept where another priest was waiting.  They spoke quickly – in Latin.

The priest heard the commotion and made his way to the foyer.  Seeing the drunkard on the floor, he helped him up and brought him threw the doors.  Another priest joined him.  They pulled him across the back of the nave – through more, old, oak doors and into a study of sorts.  They laid him down on a red sofa along the wall.  The first priest made a cross with his hand and gave a smile of encouragement to the unconscious man.  The main hall of the cathedral was vast – made up of the nave, transept and apse.  Each section was noted by a new set of columns.  There were 86 columns in total, each soaring to majestic heights.  The ceiling loomed over 50 meters high.  The top of the columns blossomed out into arches, forming the ribs of the ceiling.  The columns were of volcanic rock too, but they had a reddish-purple color.  Unlike most other cathedrals and their smooth marble and other precious stones, the volcanic stone was rough.  It would cut anyone that brushed up against it.

Seen from above, the cathedral was a cross shape. The top of the cross was arched, forming the apse. The roof was tiled in blue and green. It was over 100 meters long and the highest point was well over 120 meters high. There were two arches per story in each tower. Within every arch there were two long, stained-glass windows. Beautiful cornices with minute detail divided each story. The rain continued to pour down, deluging the streets and ally ways. David looked around and cursed. He pushed the heavy, iron latch on the door and crept inside. It was dark, and quiet. He was in a small room with a low ceiling; the foyer. Wood panels made up the walls; in front of him were more doors. These had extensive decoration on them: beautiful hand-carved ornaments – flowers, saints, and crosses. The doors had thin, stained-glass windows – dark reds, greens, blues, purples, and oranges. On the right there was a wooden box on a pedestal. Seeing it was locked, David frowned. There was a small bench on the left. Breaking the serene silence, he slipped moving towards it. His head landed hard on the cold, stone floor.

David felt the water hitting his face, but then it spread over his body – it had begun to rain. The streets were quickly emptied into shops, porticos and even busses. It rained hard. Large globules fell from the sky, inundating wherever they fell. David got up looking at the disgust on peoples faces in the full porticos. He turned, rounded the fountain, stumbled twice, but made his way up the stairs to the cathedral. Small columns held up a layered, arched awning over the strong, yet ancient oak doors. The awning was made of cylinder arches, held up by intricate capitals decorated with acanthus leaves. Under the awning he waited.

Families quickly moved on their way.  Others took steps back.  The mass of people parted like the Red Sea as he staggered back into the square.  A large fountain sat between him and the cathedral.  He fell at its black-rock base, closing his eyes.  The fountain was made of dark marble and granite.  Gargoyles, like those on the cathedral, circled – facing outward.  They had long tongues from which the water poured into the fountain pool.  Their teeth were jagged, stained by the calcium rich water.  Their wings were spread open, boasting an impressive span.  The gargoyles held on their shoulders a large monument framed in gold.  It had an inscription that read:  “Pour ceux qui souhaitent entrer ce temple divin, faites-le avec caution, le cœur contrit et l’esprit de repentance.  Car ce sont les lois.  Nul n’entre sans penser qu’au bon dieu.”– “For those who wish to enter this divine temple, do so with caution, a soft heart and will to repent.  For these are the laws.  No one can enter without a thought of the good god.”  Crowning the monument was one more gargoyle – it was covered in gold.  It’s tail wrapped around its foothold – its wings semi-closed.  It looked into the sky with its beady eyes.  It bore its teeth and tongue.  Water shot out of the open mouth.

David stumbled through the square and into the street.  He reeked of booze, and had small, recent punctures along his arms.  The street was crowded, full of Saturday morning shoppers.  The cobblestones under their feet were smooth and rounded.  David tripped on a permanent rut, worn deep into the stones.  They vaunted their hundreds of years of use to him.  David cursed aloud.  A small pool of blood formed under his knee.  Getting up he looked up at the cathedral before him.  He cursed again.  His sweatshirt was tattered and stained. The holes in his trousers presented his thin legs to the world.  The flowing blood mixed with the dirt on his legs.  His wild, curly, orange hair had not been washed for some time and his hands were brownish-green from rolling marijuana cigarettes.  Someone tried to ask if he was OK reaching their hand out, touching his shoulder.  “Don’t touch me!” he shrieked.

The massive cathedral stood on the highest hill in the city.  It was surrounded by the old town.  Enormous, solid rock blocks laid at the base, holding up the gargantuan edifice.  There were two Gothic towers on the west end, which soared up into the sky.  The ribbed spires pierced through the atmosphere.  Saints and Apostles stood silent inside archways and enclaves.  Flying buttresses spanned the north and south walls.  Wider and thicker buttresses stood proud at the back, holding up another tower and spire.  This one was not as tall, but it was sharper, serrated.  On top of each buttress a muscular gargoyle stood its watch.  The cathedral was made of the blackest, charcoal colored, volcanic rock ever seen.  It was hewn out of the immense, mountainous volcanoes that loomed over the city.

The drunk lady was drunk when she got on board. The drunk lady got even more drunk when they came around with options of cocktails, wines and beers. The drunk lady got really, really drunk when they came around the second time. The drunk lady got extremely bad smelling, laughing at everything and dancing in her seat but everyone thought it was very comical drunk when they allowed her to purchase more. The drunk lady got especially wish you were somewhere else because she was no longer funny and exceptionally overbearing and cursing and causing an exceedingly obnoxious scene drunk when she walked to the back and they still allowed her to purchase more. And she was still drunk when she passed out right before the landing and the stewardesses were greedily counting their tips and wishing she wasn’t passed out but still purchasing mixers because they figured if they hid behind the laboratories no one for some strange reason would complain about the very, very, very drunk lady.

Apparently I haven’t written in a long time, apparently it’s because of my rate change, apparently I could do something about it, but apparently I’m not going to.

Burnout; it’s what I have in this very moment. My writing has gone off the deep end – it’s no secret, I know. It’s become very lame, very blaw blaw. I admit it. I skipped yesterday because “I was too tired.” Too tired? I hate that excuse. Every time I hear someone say that, “I’m too tired,” I want to slap them. Too tired? Are you kidding me? Just get off your butt and let’s go! What’s the trouble, too tired, boo hoo. On the double, GO! “You can sleep when you’re dead.” That’s when I slapped myself figuratively speaking this evening and started to write. Sometimes you just need a good slap in the face.