I have come to crave things that I never had a taste for before. And I pride myself on my ability to acquire whatever I desire in a world in which it seems to be extinct. Chocolates, oysters and wine are all such things. They were considered aphrodisiacs once and are therefore sinful now. Anything that hints at sexual pleasure, not function, or the sensuality of women is completely forbidden. Which personally merely has the effect of making me feel all the more sensual.

I set out this morning to the east end of the city in search of oysters. The ultimate aphrodisiac. Before I heard once that there is no such thing as an aphrodisiac, now I don’t care. It is a thrill to acquire them and that is most definitely is titillating, whether or not oysters technically are.

That part of the city is out by the river, which is beautifully inspired by the pollution. It is mostly an industrial area. It was becoming trendy-industrial with theatres and galleries working their way into the neighbourhood. But those are mostly closed. Or at least appear to be. Behind the concealed windows of what was once the Warehouse Theatre, in a space that stifles with the summer heat and humidity, people come to throw back dozens of the slimmy little beasts from around the world and experience the best wines the world today has to offer. This is my destination. There is no name for this strange little restaurant, where people sit on crates on what was the stage and around make-shift tables that are dispersed throughout the audience seating.

It is dusk as I exit the streetcar and start working my way to the Warehouse. Only a select few are even aware of its present day character. The evening is fair. And though is appears clear as I exit on to the street a storm emerges out of nowhere and consumes the world, assaulting the street with large globular drops. Instantly I am soaked through and barely having time to even think about protection I dash into the alcove of the nearest entrance. But even this provides me with little shelter. As I press my back against the door, trying desperately to find some solace from the onslaught, the door creaks, forcing itself slightly ajar. Heaving my weight into it further it opens enough for me to slip through slamming it behind me and closing out the storm. As my eyes adjust to the dim light provided by windows intermingled amongst the cobwebs and rafters I realize where I am. This space used to be The Cathedral. Once an actual cathedral, later turned into one of the hottest night clubs in the city. It catered mostly to raves of drum and bass, acid jazz, trip hop and trance. From a place of intense worship to one of drugged abandonment and escape. And now only a shell of either of its former identities. The vaulted ceiling stretched high above me and the eerie light set shadows sprawling across the patterns in the concrete floor. The floor had  been inlayed marble and stone, but now is gone. Either stolen or destroyed, but no evidence remained of the hand who performed the labour.  Left behind are these brilliant patterns laid out on the surface of the rough concrete hinting at the majestic character that had once been. This floor has experienced the feet of thousands pounding out a beat and the shuffle of piety.

I walk into the centre so that the cathedral opens around me, and lay down on the floor. I removed my jacket to reveal the evening wear that I so rarely get to display these days as I settled in. The cool chill of the construction comforting against my skin in comparison to the musty humidity surrounding me. I lay there listening. The rain pounding the roof as I watch the drops confront the window panes in a desperate attempt to get in. For the first time I can remember since before this all began for a split second i can almost say I am safe. I am protected from this world in this building of contradictions that wears its life so blatantly. It is what it is (I can’t say that about myself anymore) and it is what its unnamed creator   never expected it to be. Perhaps that is not true. Those who came to dance and celebrate the music while escaping from the world, are perhaps not so different from those who came to pray. This is a sacrilegious thought...perhaps, one only to be voiced in select company, but I do not think these walls or this floor will tell on me. Either way it does not make it less true.

Its shambles now represents what happens when both thoughts drugged dance and piety are not allowed to co-exist. When each does not respect the other. The shame that this creates remains. The cold feels so comforting against my back and shoulders. The light dims more as the night slips fully in, leaving only the echo of the rain to inhabit this hallow space and encompass me. I lay in the dust and breath the stagnant air until the rain settles its beat to a light mist, then I peel myself off the floor and make my way out into the other world. I start off again towards the Warehouse and leave the fight for trance to exist with prayers on bent knees behind. I am walking towards my own fight. I fear that we are loosing.