Isn’t this a beautiful scene? I took it awhile back, a lovely woman playing classical music in Washington Square Park. So peaceful; or is it? Beneath this idyllic setting lie 20,000 bodies.

The area that would become Washington Square was originally used as a potter’s field for the yellow fever epidemic. Between 1797 and 1826, if you were poor, you were probably buried here. Whenever they do renovations at the park they usually come across a few bones. In 1965, when Con Ed was running lines, they found a set of stairs that lead to a crypt with 29 bodies- they left them there. That's the official policy, finish your work and put the bones back where you found them.

I’m reading about this in the park and my first reaction, after saying “eeek!”in a high pitched squeal, is to re-enact the Poltergeist scene, grab the piano playing woman by the lapels and scream, “They just moved the head stones! They didn’t move the bodies!” But that wouldn’t be entirely true and probably considered assault. There are no headstones- if you could afford a headstone you probably didn’t have to be chucked into an open pit. Unless you’re James Jackson, an Irishman (of course). Recently they came across his head stone buried 2 1/2 feet down.

James Jackson From Kildare Ireland died 1799. They found his headstone buried 2 1/2 feet down. Leave it to an Irishman to bring an expensive headstone to a pauper’s grave.

I’ve been a bit out of the loop lately- I don’t watch the news so I get behind on what’s going on. I just heard that George Carlin died of a heart attack, very sad. I was immediately transported back to my young adulthood. In our basement was an old record player- the needle was worn and it seemed there were more crackles heard than music but that is where my brothers and sister listened to our records and played pool. The Beatles, Pink Floyd, The Who, Frank Zappa and George Carlin are the performers that come to mind.

I feel as though I grew up with George Carlin. My older brothers bought the albums FM & AM, Toledo Window Box, On the Road and my favorite, Class Clown with “The Seven Dirty Words You Can Never Say on Television.” I would listen to these albums constantly- having them memorized. My parents let us listen to him, I suspect because, while he may have been talking about the seven dity words, it was genuinely funny.

I saw him in concert in 2001. He was funny but it seemed a bit tired. Some of it seemed to be crude for the sake of being crude- or maybe I had gotten older and wasn’t titillated (which is not one of the seven words) by that kind of humor anymore. I didn’t follow him too much after that although from the review it seems his HBO specials were pretty cutting edge and he had gotten back to what he did best, which was make people laugh.

Yesterday was spent with the dead at Pere Lachaise. What better why to put your life in perspective and contemplate what’s truly important than to be reminded of your own mortality. While wondering through the cemetery I ran into an old friend Amedeo Modigliani.

Modigliani died January 24, 1920 of tubercular meningitis at the age of 35. His excessive drug and alcohol use was a major factor in his death. The following day his common-law-wife, Jeanne Hebuterne, eight months pregnant, jumped from a 5th floor window- she was only 22 years old. They had a 14-month-old daughter, Jeanne, who was adopted by Modigliani’s sister. Very sad- Modi should have put down the bottle and the pipe and taken care of his family.

I’ve always liked walking through cemeteries. It’s quiet, people are respectful, and there lots of reading material- what more could you ask for? Cemeteries have a way of putting everything in perspective. The truth is, and most people don’t like to think about it, but it’s a very short stay. It’s interesting to see the graves in disrepair- it only takes a couple generations before people begin to let the grave go. What was once the most important thing, our individual lives, mean little- life has moved on. This may seem depressing but it shouldn’t be- it’s a reminder that we are here for a very short time and there isn’t time for nonsense like hate and doing what you aren’t passionate about or waiting in line at starbucks. Kelly and I took a long walk through Pere Lachaise to put it all in perspective- here are a few of the people we met that are remembered because they lived passionate lives.


Oscar Wildes


Eugene Delacroix


Edith Piaf


Collette


Francois Raspail

In 1870, Yvan Salman, a journalist, was shot and killed by Pierre Bonaparte, great-nephew of Napoleon. Yvan, whose pen name was Victor Noir, was just 22 when he was killed. He was delivering the terms of a duel that was to occur between Bonaparte and the editor of Noir’s newspaper. Bonaparte angered that “minions” were delivering the terms slapped and then shot Victor Noir. It was all very manly, except the slap.

This would be just another forgotten, great moment in male history except for two factors
1. The monument, by Jules Dalou is excellent- it is a bronze statue of Victor Noir, dead in the street, his top hat laying where it fell, and his pants, for some reason, unbuttoned at the waist.
2. If you look closely at the shiny part of the statue you will notice that his… well….his …. Rather large… err…there is a protuberance ...ummm. As you can see his feet and hands are quite large -yes indeed they are. As are many parts of his anatomy.
It is said that if one part of his anatomy is …touched in almost a … rubbing manner the one rubbing will become pregnant very quickly. There has been quite a bit of rubbing going on these many years- quite vigorous indeed as you can see from the shine. This constant rubbing has begun to wear away Victor’s …. shiny part. A fence was erected to save the still ample …shine but was removed after scores of protests from impatient moms-to-be.

Hang on…I’ve got to chase Kelly from a grave.

Kelly is under the weather but managed to brave a trip out to Rodin’s house in Meudon. We were the first ones in which, my sister-in-law felt, entitled us to eat the figs from Rodin’s fig tree- I immediately called the guards and she was subdued and order restored. The house is very nice- the largest room on the first floor next to the dining room and living room is his studio. If you are wondering why there is a bed frame in the studio you aren’t alone. He used it to keep his dogs from knocking over the sculptures he was working on.

He is buried in front of his famous statue, “The Thinker”. Strangely, there is an old photograph showing that a pond was once there. It would appear that he was placed in the pond and covered over. They should have put a bed frame around the grave to keep the dogs from digging him up.



The museum is a large open room with plasters casts of his famous works. I hadn’t seen this one before it was from his little-known “trying to make the rent” period.


It was definitely a worthwhile trip, Meudon is outside Paris so it had very few people other than hard-core Rodin fans- there were no “Da Vinci Code” people there.

In 1912 a visionary named Franz Reisfeldt had an idea. Reisfeildt, a tailor with nothing but an understanding of fabric, a dream and perhaps too much time on his hands, constructed a suit that would allow him to fly. All he needed was a point high enough for him to jump- Enter the Eiffel Tower.

As you can imagine, the city was abuzz with excitement. This was, after all, before cable television and the internet so the people were understandable hungry for quality entertainment. As with most innovation, it was a plan so simple that no one had thought of it before and, if they had, were probably put off by the whole “jumping off the Eiffel Tower” portion of the plan. Franz Reisfeldt was not dissuaded, he was, after all, a tailor. He theorized that if you that if you fashion a suit of clothes with enough folds the resistance will keep you afloat- much in the same way the mighty ostrich will float for hours in lazy circles above.

On a warm day in 1912 John Reisfeldt stood at the parapet of the Eiffel Tower. He gave a triumphant wave to the crowd below, put his seat in the upright position, turned off his electronic equipment and he jumped.

The flight time was a little quicker than he imagined and the landing a little more sudden but for a brief moment Franz Reisfeldt flew. Unfortunately, this was followed by an immediate and very quick descent.

I began attending a writer’s atelier a few weeks ago. I thought it might be nice to meet other writers and perhaps get motivated by their work (read: steal their ideas). They don’t talk about writing so much as they talk about reading, which is even better. The only thing duller than writing is talking about writing- but hearing people discuss the authors they love is invigorating and educational. Add with that a new cool café chosen each Sunday and you’ve got yourself a party.

Yesterday we met at a café in the 4th, near our new apartment. The talk somehow (not steered by me) drifted to Marcel Proust and his “Remembrance of Things Past.” The story, as I recall, is about a man that bites into a Madeleine cake and the taste reminds him of his past. He wraps up this stroll down memory lane some 14 years and 16 volumes later –it should be noted that the only reason the book didn’t extend past 16 volumes is that he died. Death is, after all, the final editor. My feeling is that if you can’t say what you want to say in 16 volumes you need to hang it up- but my new friends of the writer’s meeting probably would not agree. The conversation was regarding whether it was better to read Remembrance of Things Past in the original French or do you loose it's essence when reading an English or Russian translation. This, in turn, sparked debate regarding which translation was better. In English it was decided that the the second edition translation was superior. While they bantered this about I thought to myself “mmmmm Madeleines be all tastin’ good n' shit…yea, real good. I needs to get me some madelaines baaaaaad.”

It was coincidental that they were talking about Proust. The day before Kelly and I had visited his gravesite at Pere Lachaise to see for ourselves if he was still dead. (Not to ruin the ending for you but he is.) I had an idea to bring you a new dead person each week in a set of posts called “I See Dead People”. We got a map to the (dead) stars at the front gate of the cemetery and commenced to find us some dead, famous people. Let me just say, thank god they are dead because it’s hard enough to find them while they remained stationary much less if they had been wandering about aimlessly.

Marcel Proust was born 1871-1922, he has remained dead ever since. May I present to you Marcel Proust. (Applause)