Up in Smoke

16^th April 2019 – woke to images of Notre Dame burning. News feeds in overdrive brought images from drones circling the raging fire spewing through the roof. More than one news reporter couldn’t help but liken it to staring into hell. Ground crews beamed different aspects and angles of the structure as it belched flames and smoke into Paris’ darkening sky. The skeleton bared, the spire collapsing inwards on itself. Like the last dinosaur aware of its imminent demise looked horrified and pathetic as flames took ascendancy. The improbability of this magnificent architectural beauty permanently erased now probable.

All the while Parisians stare in disbelief and silence. Faces, men and women, shredded by shock and fear. Faces, young and old, streaming with tears. Some eyes half closed, bent forward silently praying into their folded hands, trembling, trying to make sense. Watching as one of France’s iconic buildings burned strangers hugged comforting each other as their skyline forever changed. As coverage rolled on through the night people came together along the riverbanks of the Seine one by one they joined each other, a street choir singing the Ave Maria. It’s what they know to do in times like this. Once before, the German army’s invasion of Paris in World War 2, Paris mourned. Only the sirens of emergency vehicles seem present, those awful sirens, the bringers of bad news when you are sitting helplessly watching. Sounding, blaring, shouting in no uncertain terms, “this is a major incident.” The sirens are sentient warning, heard most recently in Paris during the November 2015 terrorist attack. Now here they are again, so soon, so near.

And sixteen thousand, five hundred, and forty-seven kilometres away from Paris I watch, and I cry. Nothing could tear me away, compelled, fixated, I continued to watch and weep, reminiscent of the Twin Towers collapse in 9/11. Feeling I had to do something I emailed condolences to Charles who lives in Paris. It didn’t really do the trick, just enough to turn off the reports and walk away.

Hours later tears still flow, not a trickle now and then this is both eyes streaming. Granted I only made my first visit to Paris, and therefore Notre Dame in April 2017. After the Eiffel Tower it was the second place I stormed. It was not a religious experience then and this is not a religious awakening now. The sheer effrontery of constructing this eight hundred and fifty years ago is what beggars belief. The scale of the project. The vision to raise such a structure. The beauty of the building materials. The precision of the arches, the height of the domes, the imagination, the original knowledge required to construct flying buttresses never before seen. The opulence of stained glass. The artisans, craftspeople, the workers who realised the dream. The human endeavour that was now about to end in ash. And the arrogance that I should make it about my loss. This is my downfall. Well, it was a temporary salve.

Later in the evening the word impermanence floats to the forefront of consciousness. In my entire life Notre Dame is always there, granted not every day do I check to see, but after 850 years it’s a safe bet it will be. I rely on knowing it is there. It dawns there are many things that are perpetual reminders I am having a life. That theory is first rattled at the death of a parent. A parent is always there, that’s their role, their job even, to always be there, forever, permanently fixed. So, while you limp along with one removed, you still have another. Until! Your last tower collapses and leaves you. Orphan comes to mind. Poor me, now I’m an orphan.

Don’t be silly of course it’s not the end. It’s simply parents always seem unshakeable, permanent. Now comes the realisation, life if not permanent. Just like Notre Dame it could be over in a flash. A fiery flash in this case. Did I see my life go up in flames? Hell no. However, I am having a large numbered birthday shortly, and I already know I am steadily edging waaaaaaaaaay out onto the thin edge of the branch. I am impermanent. As I am not an internationally idolised monument no one will dip into their purse and offer a few billion should a piece drop off, or if I fall into massive disrepair. By close of day I had reconciled myself, the tears dried up. Taking the chance to resurrect by my own initiative I have audited the collective parts. I move on happily. Like Notre Dame I have no spire either, but I might bridge that gap by wearing a hat. The temporality of life.