July 31st, 2005


Rome is lovely, dark and de -- no, that's not right, although it does describe the catacombs. There's something queer about them which is both peculiar and fascinating, and of course very powerful. I'm drawn particularly to the moment of descent, to the down-going into the dust and the gloom. At first you can't see because your eyes are accustomed to the sun, and the cool air strikes you physically, like a blow to the gut. On s'habitue à tout, however. People lived there once. Their graves, too, attract me; they are smaller than ours, meant for an older race. Ages and ages ago somebody carefully scooped them out of the walls; they made neat little curved spaces, perhaps (certainly) with their hands. But if you put your own hand inside now they are empty. When it comes out there is dirt on it. It's like that for everyone someday.

(no subject)

The angry month of July draws once again to a close. Once, I admit, I rather looked forward to summer. So much blood to be boiled, so many riots to be raised among the sticky dust of the city's districts. Now, however, all that rises from the assembled faubourgs is the phantom force of my rage. It hangs like a gloomy miasma over haute-coutured Paris, seeping into the fine wines and expensive foods of the tourists who crowd the streets, perpetrating inanity. Perhaps I flatter myself to think that they can taste my ghostly wrath like a bitter liqueur upon their tongues.

Yes, the goddess Anoia is certainly among us in Paris, these days. Perhaps that is why I have glimpsed so few of my former comrades. I hear rumors, now and then, of some ridiculous pilgrimage Desmoulins has undertaken to Rome, yet of Danton and Robespierre: nothing. Probably they have gone off on some grand voyage and left me behind. It would be in all ways consistent with their previous behavior.

Still, the spiders spin their webs, humming comforting spider-songs about the demise of the civilized world and the coming of all things to ruins and dust in which future arachnid generations will continue to weave. Reassuring things, spiders. Perhaps it is their fatality that makes them such faithful companions.

(no subject)

Yes, I'm in Rome. It's monstrously hot, and I'm forever pulling you-know-whom out of holes in the ground, the great sod. Apart from that . . . well, that's about it, in fact.

Except for my secret connections.