304. STRING OF DREAMS

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.