Journey to the Inner Sanctuary

Unfortunately I can't do Urban Exploration, but thankfully this fits into a deconstruction of some kind.

In the sacred ((un)scathed) city of Jerusalem there are countless and constant instances of constructions and deconstrcutions, most of them sad and heavy with expectation or anticipated failure. A poet once remarked at the tragedy of the mayor of Jerusalem whose Sisyphean task it is to "build, build, build". Ruins upon ruins.

One of my favorite buildings is the Palace Hotel near the old city walls. It was built in the 20s by by the Jerusalem Mufti as a way to block Jewish populaiton expansion from the outskirts of the new city toward the old city. The building was built by Jewish contractors and Arab Muslim labor. The building lasted as a hotel for only a couple of years and soon was filled by the iteration of British beaurocracy. After 48, Israel's tax authority resided there until 2003 when the building was abandoned (the capital! it's gone!) and fell into disrepair. There have been many thoughts and deals made about the building's (re)turn to glory but nothing has come to fruition.

The architechture is Moorish and stunning. The windows are barred, but there shimmers behind them a light, a hint - a flirtation so needed on such a gray day - of an inner sanctuary, where there might be a piano and whiskey, or the stilted cold time of the holy Lobby, where we must smoke cigars and whisper about the lady (peacock feathers) waiting so quietly with her legs crossed, always crossed.



The demand, the desire, to enter. But first some fearful surroundings. Across the street is "Independence Park" which is attached to an old muslim graveyard - it was rumored that during building of our precious palace another burial ground was found and quickly "dealt with" in order to not cause delay.



Next door there is a frightening Sign:



Which is attached to a local police branch.

Down the street, where one could at one time see the old city walls they are building cement. In the middle of all the cement there is a small house like structure whose bricks are all numbered in some mystical workman (unite!) code.



Bring me inside. It must always begin from behind, from a hidden corner. A magical ladder. A skip and a jump. A youthful spinning of the head to see if maybe, just maybe, someone will catch me.

And here His chair of glory revealed:




A palm tree and trash, a long hallway. The rain stopped probably then. I ran out of film. There wasn't much glory and I was sopping wet. This was probably the outdoor courtyard. I didn't find any bones or any lingering important papers, but I will return for more extensive research and TASK.