St. Louis Cathedral

Small Apocalypse

My usual sacred Sunday characterized by lethargy was disrupted; all day underwear, brunch, and complicated decisions regarding what to put off until a rare rush of productivity slaps me silly (divine intervention), was obliterated once informed that my girlfriend and I had to show up to Sunday mass at the St. Louis cathedral for her parents anniversary. Turning the other cheek for what could be my future in-laws, I invoked all of my inner spirits to rise like Lazarus ( The New Testament's first reference of zombies)  and receive the holy spirit. It was a sacrifice to get up; I was pacified by an electric blanket, and smashed in the most delicate of ways by pillows. I was more than happy with this  sloth's life sentence. Purgatory? I think not. 

However, there was an uninvited guest that I welcomed in my gullible sleep until I was fully aware of it's eerie presence. Although serene, the way a fog creeps around every corner is disturbing.

We rose to get ready for our salvation, until we stopped to notice, befuddled, that the sinister fog had weaved it's way through all the crevices of our room.

Good thing we woke up.

One more hour in slumberland and we would have been taken by it's suave maneuvers. For a moment, I thought it ate our kittens and spat out their bones. Best leave it alone, if it finds comfort in your home, it is wise to not upset it. After all, it seems to be a ephemeral manifestation of the netherworld. Certain conditions are indicators of fog, but it is still a mercurial, unpredictable happening when a cloud decides to crash land.

I scrammed to meet a taxi that honked multiple times, perhaps telling her to hurry up, or just to briefly disrupt a relentless fog that wanted victims. It all took place on a desolate street, where death could lurk with ease. Anything could happen. 

Finally, we depart, glad we lived another day.

A silent taxi ride, positive that the three of us contemplated if we were still dreaming, and if the city was really frozen, truly resting for once, put to sleep by the fog.

The fog lights cower, the fog is in pursuit, the driver sweats, and the Crown Victoria functions as a struggling battering ram against a impenetrable entity.

We managed to make it downtown and the air smelled fresh as we approached the Quarter; the fog and dew aided the garbage-men's mediocre job. Lackluster because of the legions of drunks from the night before that keep them from completely purging the city of the garbage. 

If you press your ear against the cobblestones, you can still hear the collective cacophony of the drunk zombies and carbon copy bars; staggering footsteps, falls, and mistakes, ready to be relived later with another day of debauchery. That, and the slow rot of your ear after such a pernicious discovery.

We get off a taxi that flees the destination without us being completely out of the car. We curse before church. What a shame. 

Before the gates of this white giant open to the public, we walk around. The cathedral looks too pure and insultingly white; it fails to relate to the city. 

I can hear it bellow "Be as majestic, decadently white, and perfect as I!" The cathedral does not keep an eye on it's city. I see it nervously pick it's face; it is a very anxious specimen that attempts to repel any of the city's filth before it opens, but it doesn't always work. The steeple is always looking for higher ground, and it wants nothing to do with what is on earth.

And now I look around, not up.

Jackson Square; a pretty garden that is as out of place as the vegetation that some people pity when they notice it is quarreled by a concrete jungle. 

Pirate Alley; no more pirates, substituted by the inebriated that at least pay tribute to the rape and pillage. 

Local artists claim their territory like dogs with their urine. Although aggressive towards competition, they have the decency to refrain from writing their names with urine. 

There are all sorts of artists. Con artists, painters, musicians. Also, there are psychics that sit all day in front of the cathedral. They have just arrived on their broomsti- , sorry, sedans. The fortune tellers proceed to persuade clients into an personalized sermon about the tarot arts; not limited to fortune, The New Orleans Saints, death sentences, and sexuality.

 Cafe Du Monde, usually led by a integrated team of diverse employees, is switched to a segregated Sunday work force. The staff is completely Asian and I want to think it's still a dream. There is nothing wrong with this, they are very kind, and it is painful to see how hard they try after so many clients send glares of disapproval. It's just another peculiarity, an unfortunate one at that. The coffee and beignet's sugar rush allow me to snap out of the half-asleep trance. We leave empty-handed, and confused as to what was the motive behind this decision.

St Louis Cathedral. If Disney World had a Church, it would most definitely be this one with Mickey Mouse replacing the Cross. It finally opens it's now embracing, previously crossed arms, and I feel that we almost have to fight for imaginary tickets, for the front rows of swift salvation are filling up quickly with season ticket holders (the one's who are there but not really there, or zombies) 

The organist plays  a Gothic tune that resembles a morbid sporting event that will inevitably end in bloodshed. Five hundred extra church-goers could fit in the cathedral if it wasn't for the cautionary waste of space that is established among strangers with lines that must not be crossed. "Even in the House of God, amongst brothers, you better not burst my bubble!" I wish the fog forced some friction.

Many will have to wait until next Sunday and wait outside early in the morning for good seats. Fortunately, some people just enter to take pictures, despite a strict no picture policy, and proceed to the nearest daiquiri stand ( just two blocks away!).

The bigger the church, the more conservative the service: 

The majestic stature of St. Louis Cathedral is dwarfed by a lifeless, ordinary sermon, led by a drone of a priest that was just made in China. He comes with pre-recorded lines that rotate every week and a forced grin of uncomfortable compassion. 

We leave, masking our dissatisfaction by marveling at the architecture of the oldest operating cathedral in the USA. It is truly amazing. However, the service entered one ear and left the other. It was inferior to the dominance of the fog that was now making it's last stand against the flock of churchgoers. A undead legion swayed by a dead sermon. They never paid much attention to the fog, preoccupied with an agenda of sin.