lacrima.

lacrima delle madonna. the tears of the madonna.

there was a neighborhood here where a picture of the madonna got wet one day. a scientist tested the liquid and declared it human tears. a miracle.
they bulldozed the beautiful old neighborhood and built a hideous jagged-edged raincloud colored teepee, complete with statue of mary at the highest peak. it can be seen from most anywhere on the island. everything is metal and concrete, reminding me of the back wings of rupp arena.
i see a sign for il cripto, the crypt and i am intrigued. i cross myself in the old habit with the murky holy water and wonder who has spat and pissed in it.
an uber modern church setup in a dark circle of concrete, chairs in rows, the seats of those more like the Infallible Father akin to Star Wars thrones.
for no apparent reason a thirty foot long rock juts awkwardly out of the conrete floor, seats set around it in complete ignorance.

i scoff at the souvenir shop, dare someone to tell me to leave for bearing my shoulders, click pictures, digital sound echoes, and dip greedy fingers into another vat of holy water. for everyone likes free shit and isnt that what catholic churches are good for anyway? cool water sifts through the hairs on my forehead, dip into a nostril, drip from the tip of my nose. free crackers and wine and should their god be real, a free blessing from him.
the sirens echo inside and eventually the ultra creepy reverberation of children's, father's voices as if deep in a cave, mixed with the groan of traffic.
they are conrete ghosts.

it may be muffled underground nuns singing or a cd playing or the man i saw dressed like gandhi with a cloth around his waist but they sound like pigeons cooing and flapping their wings. the main floor is underground and smells of mold and mildew. behind a curtain i find darkened closets stacked full of altars and the scent of catholic mass secretly excreting.
a room of handicap access confessionals lined up like hardwood porta potties a button for english, italian, french, deutsch. i am terrified as i was at the age of eight but i try to open the door nonetheless.
in spite of myself i feel fear genuine and old running through my weakened legs. the door and the skeleton keyhole are solid. i think i may see someone sitting behind the darkened glass but it is only my reflection though i am not sure.
a scale model of the monument, ten feet tall, lit up as if it were night time, made entirely of matches. i am disappointed to find that il cripto contains no more stench than the decay of half assed superstition and no more dead body than that of human intelligence.



the notes of the bell tower are creepy.
i assume they are a recording until i notice how flat the notes.