Woodlawn Cemetery

The grave of Sir Miles Davis rests peeringly against a cool backdrop of sprung foliage on a crisp Sunday morning in Woodlawn Cemetery. In the distance, deep within the harmonizing foreground an owl carved convincingly from bright maple stands defiantly, invitingly. It is the 4th of November 2018 and at times it looks like our democracy itself is destined for an inground tomb --- Such as the kind you’ll find dug snugly into the corner of a ridge here, whereby an eternal nest quotes Hyperion, achingly and the entire scene evokes a dreary dreamscape where ghosts ride wild horses on a war-torn battlefield green.An imposing array of Milestones --- Lot by lot of dry bones seeking deliverance,  In a silent way. The quiet morning gets quieter and quieter the deeper you walk, the longer you think. Meanwhile, the bright and buoyant colors incubate themselves at the forefront of the foggy sky. To capture it is impossible, but to walk up one of the many varied, winding gateways and propitiously stumble into the resting place of Elizabeth Cady Stanton on the eve of midterm elections hearkens back to a psychology professors quote from an Atlantic magazine article on coincidences:  “Random is not enough of an explanation for me,” he said... Somehow now intuitions and insights climb their postured ascent up from these tired feet screaming for the summer sun, blown together as one with the Unus Mundus, the yellow Autumn Leaves shriek into one thoughtless moment of swirling chaos...And this is all truly an indefinable joy --- Not least when you’ve spent the better part of your morning jaunt hoping to dig up some bleak enlightenment to counterbalance what can otherwise only be viewed as a lonely unmarked grave is --- as it bends its neck further and further askew along a semi-toppled landscape of grey sky and fervent rainclouds.Across the street, across the stylish green street sign reading Summit/Heliotrope Ave --- Across a horizontal, military-like chain of graves, Across a gorge of debris laden cement --- A tan grey, bricked building emitting the smell of fresh coriander protrudes apathetically on the horizon. Hardworking men and women who deserve the best our mortal coil has to offer --- abide this scenery every morning preparing breakfast for their sleeping children against the fertile foreground of its melancholic aide-mémoire. Across this chasm of the living and the dead: You can hear a heartbeat, a blue note, a vibrato .