There is the place we know and there is the place we live.
This I realized staying the past fifteen years in The Temple situated beyond the CPR tracks, at the bottom of Caswell Hill just off of Louis Riel Trail in Saskatoon on the Canadian prairies. Something I've been reminded of as the walls flake and the roof falls.
The Temple windows are a bit high meaning I see mostly sky and trees. Inside there is a story which remains mostly untold and not easily accessible. The Ladies Prayer Room in the basement with the now demolished bathroom, the attic with empty pulleys and asbestos, crumbling steps, fence planks missing, cracked windows and worn pathways speak of age and a relentless drive towards being junked or dispersed. Places vanish precisely because, a few years down the track, there is no 'guardian' left willing to pay the bills for the sake of posterity?
There is no concealing the sourcing of alienation or the substance of tradition. Speaking in tongues the spaces between deliberately undermine the construction and deconstruction. A renouncing of pleasure questions the perception resulting in that which actively engages fascination.
Years go by, the guardian ages and the fascination is living the knowledge.
- See: Writings
note ... initial days ...