It is said half of Paris is hidden underground.

The limestone once carved out and brought forth from its depths (which created its great historical buildings and beauteous landmarks) have left behind a hollowed cavern of alleyways within Paris’s subterranean depths creating a sort of double city.

It is not uncommon in Europe to exhume graves for the purpose of new burials sites on limited space. When the old graves are exhumed, human remains have either long turned into dust, or – in Paris – removed to the catacombs.

The unexpected entrances to the Parisian catacombs seem apropos. One enters very suddenly from life on a perfectly normal street, to descend narrow (and seemingly endless) flights of spiraled steps through darkness straight down into the abyss.

The catacombs are not for the claustrophobic soul, the faint of heart, the superstitious, or even the slightly nauseous. Six million skeletons share the space, their skulls and cross bones inlaid into eerie rows and palisades. They grin and stare, some broken, but all stripped of individuality; they are actually the visible structure itself. Resembling yellowed stone and amber under dim artificial light, they reside in their lonesome vault where silence screams, and dampness on the walls collects in beads of water running down what once were faces.

It is very difficult not to accidentally touch these faces as one sweeps past them, as the dirt path is narrow and the wall of the dead line both sides. One may be suddenly struck by the meaningless of existence, or contemplate the dreams that each separate head must have once held. One cannot escape the blank skeletal stares nor ignore an uneasy feeling of one’s own immortality.

A highly musky, yet unfamiliar odor permeates an atmosphere that chills the soul more than the body. Everywhere, it is a dark and minimally lit place where passageways seem endless and time becomes lost. One sees nothing but more walls of surreal people who are now long past, yet the mind cannot comprehend such tragedy.

The imaginative may feel they are walking through fictional pages of an Edgar Allen Poe tale, and the more sensitive may feel a sudden urge to get out … Around every walled corner, alas, it seems grim walls only continue, painted on with human remains.

Then, as if exiting a still-life nightmare, the outlet steps finally appear and swirl upward, and slowly, slowly, lead back into reality and the day. One may feel startled to be alive in the warm familiarity of a contemporary street flooded with bright colors, normal sounds, lively shoppers, and outdoor cafes.

One cannot fail to grasp the sudden irony.  The catacombs of Paris are not an experience easy to forget.

2010 by Paula Marie Deubel (P. Mari)

Published  Suite101.com 2010

 

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Dear Tom,

As you can see my posts have been quite melancholy lately with themes of darkness and death.  Today I will attempt to lighten up the mood by writing about your namesake, Aztec, my border collie,  who I presume you must know I named after your beautiful Aztec heritage.  

He was born weeks before you died and so even his age helps me keep track of how long you’ve been gone – already two years in January, 2012.  I really still miss you.  

Your Namesake does NOT share certain traits with you (such as not coming when I call him, being inattentive and often ignoring me, chasing after things at night, all of which are things you chose not to do, as you were a very loyal man), yet there are certain  traits he DOES share with you, things that make me laugh.  I know you don’t mind  that I named my dog – meant to fill a very empty place in my life – after you, because you loved all animals.

Anyway, what reminds me most of you (when I see Aztec) is beauty – those bright golden eyes that resemble Aztec gold, black windswept hair (fur), a strong leanness, a beautifully wild countenance and true physical grace.  He acts very young for his age (still immature?) and  is a playful boy at heart.  He is as fearless and protective as you always were  (jealous, too), dignified,  yet has that certain wonderful ”joi de vie” just like you, that unnameable belief in the future no matter what. 

 God knows you had your battles  but, my dearly missed one, you NEVER lost your joi de vie!  I am including a video herein so you can see your Namesake getting happy and excited over a driveway crack!  Like you, Aztec doesn’t miss any of life’s details.  He finds joy in the simplest of things.  And, to top it off, he even has a blaze down his face like a white feather and tan markings that sort of remind me of a mask.  Did the Aztecs wear masks?  I can’t remember, but you would know … nevertheless, his mask and gold eyes suit his name.

So I hope you enjoy the video of Aztec dancing with a  big heart full of a love of life.  I can’t say I have much “joi de vie” right now.  Maybe someday.  Not yet.

Goodnight, angel.

love

A German Classic by Lang and Von Harbou

Weary Death (Der Muede Tot) – Review

Weary Death - By: faustfoundation

Photo - By: faustfoundation

Der Muede Tot means the tired, or weary dead, or Weary Death, a 1921 silent art film by Austrian-American film maker, Fritz Lang and German writer, Thea Von Harbou.

Thea Von Harbou played a vital role in the creation of German Expressionist movies directed by Lang (her husband), during 1919-1933, including (among others) Weary Death, Metropolis, Dr. Mabuse, and M.

Background

Weary Death (described as a German folk tale) was Lang’s first critical success, highly symbolic of the inevitable role death plays in love and loss. The original movie is black and white, creating a very gray and somber mood that is extremely atmospheric, with German subtitles accompanied by music. The British name of the movie is Destiny; the American film is Beyond the Wall or Between two Worlds, and also known as The Three Lights.

Death: A Symbolic Portrayal

Death is portrayed as a gaunt figure with an ashen, expressionless face and sunken eyes, clothed in a long drab cloak. Death is not evil, but rather a neutral force, and by the end of the film the audience is meant to realize that. 

The story begins with a betrothed couple (never named) deeply in love. One afternoon, during a pleasant ride, a lone passerby – Death – stops their horse-drawn taxi and enters. He sits directly across from the lovers staring with fixed eyes.

They quickly leave the coach, only to encounter the same figure in a tavern (unaware he has followed them). The eerie being sits down at their private table, saying nothing. The scene suggests death cannot always be avoided, that it chooses who it will.

When Death’s beer glass changes into an hourglass the frightened girl leaves the room. She returns to the table, but, to her surprise, her betrothed has left with the stranger.

She searches everywhere until outside the walled cemetery (a high, impenetrable barricade Death built without exit or entranceway). Souls of the freshly dead approach, walking past her through the wall. In horror she sees her fiancé, reaches toward him and collapses.

Fighting Destiny

Inconsolable, she enters an apotheque and attempts swallowing poison after reading a quote from an opened Bible, “Love is stronger than death.”

Transported to a visionary staircase she meets Death and asks for her amour. Death declines; it’s not her time to die. Death explains not to take it personally, it is his own destiny to take away souls, and he is, in fact, very tired of it.

He shows her a chamber of candles, many glowing, others extinguished, some quickly melting unto their bases. Each flame is another life he must take – some in youth, others during old age – as his tiresome duty. To prove this, he takes a small flame from a candle into his palms and it turns into a vision of an infant, its mother weeping over her untimely loss. This is the unfair job Death is fated to for all time.

Nevertheless, the girl begs for her lost love until Death relents; if she can save only one of three lives represented by three (barely flickering) candles, he’ll grant her wish.

Stories Within a Tale

Her soul is sent to the Middle East, Venice, and India. The movie alludes these may be previous reincarnations (where she must change her past), or perhaps Death has merely created a visual fantasy for her to meet his challenge. Reality and unreality entwine beautifully throughout the whole film.

Each is an exotic mini-episode (China is particularly imaginative, with a flying carpet and magic horse conjured by a bizarre wizard); however, the outcome remains unchanged. The girl’s lover is again lost to Death, fate works against her every time. Destiny cannot be undone, finally illustrated by the third candle expiring.

Undaunted, she beseeches Death until he wearily says to bring him a living soul in exchange for her dead love.

Becoming Fate

The scene flashes back to the girl sipping poison, which the druggist hurls from her hands.

Excitedly, she asks the druggist if he’d please “gift” his life to her since he already lived many years. Enraged, he throws her out of his apotheque. She finds the town beggar (a wretched, sickly man) promising an end to his misery. He angrily replies, “not a day (of my life), not an hour.” She soon finds even the most miserable of beings are unwilling to give up the gift of their own life.

When she overhears some old people discussing wishes for a peaceful death, she’s heartened. Yet they flee upon hearing her offer, the last women dropping a candle in panic. A terrible house fire ensues with an infant trapped inside.

The girl rushes back into the flaming building, eager to give a living baby to Death in exchange for her lover, but her conscience intervenes. She cannot perform so cruel an act. Instead, she finally changes fate, wrapping the infant in sheets, gently lowering it through a window to the mother. She tells Death she simply cannot pay his high price, though life without love will be meaningless.

Perhaps rewarded for unselfishness, Death takes her to a crypt where her dead lover reposes in state. She runs to him, weeping; death touches her head and she instantly dies, consumed in fire as the roof collapses.

In a scene somewhat reminiscent of the later filmed (1972) Wuthering Heights, both souls rise from their fallen bodies. Death takes them gently under his cloak and leads them away… Then Death himself disappears, and only the two lovers continue on toward eternity.

Mystique of Silent Film

Physical movement in silent film is the way acting was defined, and one cannot help being enthralled by such visual beauty. If this unique movie could be remade, with its rich surrealism and mystic themes, it would still be timely although perhaps there are certain meanings in film and art that only silence can say.

Weary Death is said to be among Alfred Hitchcock’s favorite films. Ironically, in 1954, Thea von Harbor, the author, fell during one of its showings in Berlin, and died.

Read more by author at Suite101: http://my.suite101.com/

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Last Saturday Kenneth Standish would have had his 49th birthday if only he was still in this world.  His sister, Colette, wanted to acknowledge her beloved brother’s special day and so she decided to enter his world instead.  I remember her bravely stating, “Death be damned!” in deepest sorrow and she meant it.  I believe she will live her motto for the rest of her life and very rightfully so.   She realizes death is a challenge to keep loving someone without a physical form.

On Saturday she went into the cemetery, a world within a world; this particular cemetery is not a City of the Dead, but rather a rural gathering of invisible souls, a lovely meadow with many inscribed and scattered stones.  Bright flowers dance upon it like poppies in a wild field.  The shadows are from trees and low clouds and grief.

It stands on a high hill of sorts, alone unto itself.   Colette did not bring flowers to her brother’s memorial, she brought balloons (like she always does).  She wrote a birthday message in an envelope to Kenny with well-wishes from his family and friends.  She tied a large bright polka-dotted tie to the balloons, because her brother has such a great sense of humor and would laugh when he saw it.  Then she sent the birthday package way up, up, up into the clouds on the strings of balloons until they slowly disappeared.

She was sure Kenny received them when she walked back to her car and saw a nebulae of star dust strangely brush across her face.

Death be damned!

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KENNY!”

(Clint Mansell – Death is the Road to Awe – The Fountain)

 

One day I will (along with many others) really miss those fine moments at Borders Book Store – real books with actual pages to touch and the smell of coffee and chocolate from the cafe, classical or alternative music in the background (live music on weekends) and all those interesting poets, writers, musicians we used to meet there … gone forever? … I hope not!  It was a feast of the senses.  Touch … smell … sight … sound … and even taste.  Who could wish for more?

Alas, it was a corporate store, but one of the very few with soul.

“Magic is Science Unexplained …”  P. Mari, 1985

ANCIENT AZTEC POEM

All the earth is a grave and nothing escapes it,
nothing is so perfect

that it does not descend to its tomb. Rivers, rivulets, fountains and

waters flow, but never return to their joyful beginnings; anxiously

they hasten on the vast realms of the rain god. As they widen their

banks, they also fashion the sad urn of their burial.

Filled are the bowels of the earth with
pestilential dust once flesh and bone,

once animate bodies of man who sat upon thrones,
decided cases, presided in

council, commanded armies, conquered provinces, possessed treasure, destroyed

temples, exulted in their pride, majesty, fortune, praise and power. Vanished

are these glories, just as the fearful smoke vanishes that belches forth from

the infernal fires of Popocatepetl. Nothing recalls them but the written page.

HUNGRY-COYOTE (NEZAHUALCOYOTL)

King of Texcoco (1431-72)

DUST

We

will meet

Someday

for the last time

and won’t

even

know it

 

(Paula Marie Deubel (P. Mari) from Poems of Love and Madness, copyright 2005 Archangel & White Feather Press, GraveStar@inorbit.com)

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In Loving Memory of Tom Huey Soto, Aztec Indian, 1952 – 2010

To one who passed through many trials of fire here on earth;
hope your will wings carry you free through softest clouds …

 

 

 

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