Gutted

I awakened this morning to a horrible emptiness in my soul. Not knowing what was going on, I wandered around the house for a minute. Checked in on the email, the Facebook. Randomly, typed in the following URL: www.ksl.com

Breaking news: Provo Tabernacle on fire. I'm suddenly really sad- I've spent hundreds of days in this building. Between the twice annual stake conferences of my childhood and the hundreds of productions I have done- Concerts, plays, meetings, video shoots, First Night, etcetcetc.
My favorite part of the place was the super narrow super steep spiral staircases leading up into the attic. Yes I've been up there. All sweet old wood trussing and musty smelling. There was a corner up there with lots of dates and initials, old programs and people's tributes to the old place. I have to admit, I wrote my name onto a beam. If you find the inscription "PFJ 1994" or such on any of the debris, don't be surprised.

I arrived on scene this morning to take a couple photos.

A minute later, I heard the most nauseating sound I've ever heard, it sounded like a punch to the stomach, but amplified 1,000,000x. The sound that 20,000 pounds of shingles, wood, bricks and stained glass makes as it caves inward and falls to the floor. Crunching, creaking, groaning.


Suddenly I realize that the smoke billowing upward isn't steam, nor is it the carbon emissions of the combustion of wood, it's the screaming destruction of the millions of memories that this place held.

The memories that once were part of a historical walking tour are now nothing more than the anecdotal stories of old people. And I'm one of the old people. So are my children.

Yesterday, I was in the building and the building spoke to me. As I walked out the door the door crashed into me, reminding me of all the other times I had been in the place. Reminding me that we went way way back. And saying goodbye.


This morning I mourn for the ProTab and for the door that I had to watch burn.