304. STRING OF DREAMS
High part and imagining.
That same cemetery in
Philadelphia, Laurel
Hill, has a cemetery
museum, in its office
building. Two and a
half rooms, some
interesting stuff, notes,
photos, placards. One
thing they have is a
'Frederick and Trump,'
(Robert Frederick and
C. A. Trump Company,
'Corpse Coolers').
I think it is, corpse
cooler. That was a
company that made
these display cases
for coffins, back
when people used
to get laid out, for
visits, in their homes,
on display. Before
embalming and
undertaking, and
all. It looked like a
nicely finished wooden
cabinet, horizontal,
which held the coffin,
and had a big screw
thing to turn so as to
prop up the dead
person, I guess as
much as you wished.
But the coolest thing
was it's all atop a
hollow chest of wood
which was filled with
block ice. Somewhat
insulated, the ice
stayed that way. I
guess it didn't melt
much and slop
all over the floor.
The family probably
had one or two
days to show off
their family member,
and then it all got
taken down and
the coffin was
carried out. The
thing had wheels
too, so I suppose
once 'Dad' or
'Uncle Otmar'
got inside the house
and set up, he could
sort of be wheeled
anywhere. Big
rooms and all,
you know. Funny
too, how now
Trump is actually
a name we all know.
Back then, someone
with that name was
making rolling stiff-boxes,
for house display corpses.
Oh well, as Eugene
O'Neil put it, in a
drama-title, 'The
Iceman Cometh,'
and I guess so.
-
I'd never been to a
cemetery museum
before. I guess, seeing
as Laurel Hill is the
definitive cemetery
for much of what
followed, it only
makes sense. It's a
bit fascinating -
there are all sorts
of things, leftover
tidbits of this and
that, people's pens
and possessions,
little stories about
stuff. Not spooky
in that normal sense.
You can but hats
and tee shirts, mugs,
and the rest. All
that gift shop material
abounds. But, at the
same time, it's quiet
and the few other
people I've ever
seen there are
awed or agape
at things. This
museum is now
in its own small
building, adjacent to
the office, but before
this it shared space
with the office. The
two ladies in there
all day, and the
Manager person, they'd
just be milling around,
greeting people,
answering phones,
answering questions,
handing out maps,
and all, in the
middle of this
whole other thing.
It must have
been maddening
enough - so it's
now been moved.
Much more reverential
and thoughtful. There
were also a lot of
stories about, from
these corpse cooler
things - the usual
dumb stories about
which I was always
doubtful - of
the people who
were 'assumed' dead,
and after a day or
two on ice and all
that were found to
be alive, twitched
or blinked, or just
woke up. Cold as
hell, as guess (even
though we all
assume Hell has
nothing to do
with cold - I don't
know why people
ever say that phrase).
Maybe that's true,
once in a hundred
thousand or
something. At
least now, when
people get embalmed,
you can be sure as
ever no one's ever
gonna' wake up in
that coffin in front
of you - seeing as
they've been drained
and gutted, basically.
It was a lot different
back then. I guess
you got buried with
your last meal still
in you. Ugh. There
were also those
stupid storied
about people being
buried with a string
tied to their finger,
which string was
connected to a
bell outside,
in case the
'corpse' woke
up the slightest
movement would
ring the bell and
the watchman
would (supposedly)
be alerted and save
this person. Of
course that in no
way accounts
for the 'no-air'
factor and how
to explain that,
but it covers a
good deal of story
line for 'saved by
the bell' as an
expression. Oh,
all this death
stuff just got
to be to much.
We don't do that
anymore, even
though I've seen
some weird
burial things.
-
There used to be
an early TV show,
when I was kid,
called 'Naked City'
- I think the slogan
went, 'there are a
million stories in
this naked city;
this is one of
them.' Thy
were cool little,
black and white,
I guess one
hour crime
dramas. In the
oldest way
imaginable,
unlike anything
that's done today.
Real old, NYCity
scenes, street
stuff, real places,
situations you
could walk right
into. It used to
fascinate me.
Maybe now it's
called 'noir' -
that means 'black',
but what's meant
is that the story
presented -
nothing to do
with 'race' or
'Black' as we
get it today -
the story
presented was
dark, moody,
tense, mysterious.
'Noir' is a whole
school of stuff,
unto itself -
fiction, books,
stories, movies,
etc. Naked City
was great for all
that, and I often
thought these
corpse-cooler
things would
fit right into
one of those
old kind of
stories; loft murder,
intrigue, mystery,
a death by 'odd'
circumstance, to
be investigated.
Perfect stuff.
All the people
in these little,
really almost
primitive, TV
dramas, were always
deep and heavy,
really conflicted
- as were the
very situations
presented. I don't
know much about
much of anything,
but if I was doing
some psychological
profile of myself
or something for
some silly college
profile or presentation
about myself in an
admissions essay
or any of that crap
- the ritual bullshit
by which everything
like that is done today
- I'd probably have
to say that was what
did it for me, as
a kid, formed and
maybe made a big
part of my stupid,
later-on, citified
character. "Dear
Mr. So and So
Admissions Person
- Well, thanks and
all but the most
and the best of
what I can say
about myself is
the summation
of whatever you'd
ever see in any
of those 'Naked City'
compendiums -
that, of course,
you'd probably
never see. Stylistic
differences, for sure.
No, it's not porn
or any of that, you
understand; it's
about hurt. Do
you know about
hurt, I wonder.
What it is? How
it tolls in a soul
like a razor-blade bell,
just ripping through
a formless void? I'd
even wonder, does
'hurt' ever even
get admitted into
this place? What
would you say if
I told you flat
out that my values
or awarenesses
about things came
first from all of this
- peculiar, twisted,
dark and useless
nowhere dramas
about a big, crumbly
city - streets and
buildings, domed
churches and
doomed lurches.
Could you
understand that?
Vigils in doorways
where some old guy
is staggering with
blood coming out
his mouth and a
dagger in his back,
where that lady
screams at the
very same moment
somehow that she
drops of paper bag
full of groceries
when she comes
across the scene
and all the cans
and things go
rolling along the
ground while the
camera pans to a
longer shot and
all you see is
maybe the street
and a few cars
and the police
cruiser just
coming around
the bend as the
camera pans the
skyline and
everything fades.
Much like that. Yes.'
-
I don't know why
I just did that,
wrote that. I guess
I lost control of
myself. Or just
came back again
to life, ringing
that warning bell
for Living, connected,
as it was, to the end
of my finger by
the string of
dreams I carry.
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