Light floods through the etchings of the decorative panels above the doors. It's quiet here compared to the Dark Cave that didn't let me in because the cave was so full of people. There were counters for visitors' information, ticket sellers, men guarding the motorbike lot, loud groups of Vietnamese, young ladies applying sunblock, men on phones, groups of Westerners on tour.
The church is empty. There the light again glints through the chipped cracks of the dark doors. All I hear is the wind and the creaking of wood. Yet I feel peace in this place that costs nothing. I love empty churches. Even though I'm a bit of a fallen angel, as I sit backwards on the pew with my feet on the bench, I feel safe.
With no Catholics around to judge me for my scanty clothing and disrespectful sitting stance, my tattoo and my dreams of lavender hair, I actually love being in houses of worship. Even if people judge me, God doesn't. And I do feel something here. If not the presence of a heavenly dude who sent his son down to Earth to die for my sins, then some sense of tranquility. This place reminds me that people, who are for the most part assholes, do have a sense and need for spirituality.
And what spirit this place has. Rosettes of wall etchings glow a-golden in the humid July afternoon, bordered by teal-green vines a shade darker than the pastel sea-green walls. The burnished wood softly shines. This alternating soundtrack of wind, silence, and creaking wood. How sublime I feel writing here, while sweat trickles down my chest between my boobs. Am I a stream of consciousness in a series of mountains and valleys, a part of this country? I'm wearing the dope jean jacket I found in the middle of the jungle. It keeps out 90% of the wind and sun when I am motorbiking and gives me 100% style. Thanks "Mr. Ken". He probably did die from a tiger mauling. I couldn't wash out the blood stains. RIP.