The Merry Cemetery of… Suceava
The funeral cortege ambled with grief carved deeply into the faces of the mourners. Yielded to sorrow, every heart beats slower to match the rhythm of the hearse. Is there any point in a eulogy now, when the ever-present, but seldomly acknowledged futility of man looms on the horizon, forcing us into acquiescence? We all seem part of an archaic, arcane ritual, offering sacrifices to the ever-hungry grave so that we apease him, so that people can die tomorrow too… Then, suddenly, through all the sobbings and gloomy murmurs echoes a dissonant cry, but it’s not a sad one. No, it’s a joyous one, as if someone were laughing. But not any laughter. No, it’s an Cartman-in-With-Apologies-to-Jesse-Jackson-ish laughter, a convulsive, cosmic one.
Unfortunately, this is only a make-belief situation. Albeit a very possible one, provided the opportunity of a stroll through the Suceava Cemetery. Just like in the Simpsons, a guy selling hot dogs and popcorn for the general entertainment would not be very misplaced. Hilarious tombstones, statues or inscriptions are bound to give you a good time. Luckily I had my camera, to give you a glimpse of what I am talking about.
Here we have the Samba-Jesus, a depiction of the costume Jesus used for the Rio Carnival (5 days before the Last Supper). The bananas on his head have unfortunately faded away, but you can still notice the exquisite bathing suit used solely for this ocasion.
After the trend of buying terrain on the Moon or buying stars, it seems that eternity itself can be purchased. For the right price of course. The only inconvenient is that they run on a first come, first served basis. So 140 other lucky guys have beaten this one to buying their share of immortality. I wonder if the retailers give discounts?
Here’s someone who surely has had a problem coping with the afterlife. I understand you’re having a hard time admitting you’re dead, but must you wish for my death too? Perhaps we should get Bruce Willis to film The Sixths Sense part two, and intersperse the drama with some Diana Malos trivia.
Squash-the-Angel, version 1.0. An early game, it did not have 3d graphics, as you can see. An interesting feature is the parallel allignment of the wings, suggesting either getting run over by a monster truck (slightly improbable) or a collision with a speeding plane (a claim with a far more sustainable basis)
Now, the ultimate masterpiece, providing the final dethroning of the Merry Cemetery of Sapanta. Two more RIP-plates were nailed to the same bench, as a gruesome invitation to rest upon it.. at your own risk.
Finally, a typical second grade essay ending, quite suitable for this post: “What a great time we had in the cemetery!”
The training of falcons
“Do you know how a falcon is trained my dear? Her eyes are sewn shut. Blinded temporarily she suffers the whims of her God patiently, until her will is submerged and she learns to serve – as your God taught and blinded you with crosses.” (Theatre of Tragedy – And when he falleth)
Taking the quote cum grano salis and to a less atheistic extent, its truth seems obvious, especially – and now I tend to repeat myself – if you’re living in the all-faithful Bucovina. And now, complying to the same narrative framework used some time ago… here goes…
A normal scene in the classroom. I enter and, as I head towards my desk out back I pass a whole line of sitting colleagues. As most teenagers do – in a surreptitious attempt to underline their partially unacknowledged maturity – I shook hands with the boys I was passing by. One after another, they put forward their hands, until one of them looks at my stiffened hand without lending me his own. I chased away the awkwardness of the situation, since we were looking eye to eye, and I asked: “What’s the deal? Shake hands, goddamit!” The answer was truly a shocker – “I can’t, I’ve received the Eucharist!”
I’ve heard other claims that during the day of the Communion you cannot kiss and spit. They seemed at least weird, not to say preposterous, but this one crosses the line. Then I’ve heard you’re not allowed to run either during those 24 hours. Will the divine grace be chased away by a simple touch of the hands? Will the wine and bread be tossed in the stomach and cause you nausea? I wonder if you’re allowed to drive faster? To pee? (since spitting’s out of the question…) Isn’t it obvious that there’s much more power involved in a Sacrament than the bigot misinterprets by stating new rules?… Women in the period days aren’t allowed in church… Could someone point the Bible passage that says “Damned art thee, fro which blood floweth, if thou walkest to church”? No, surely not… But, until a mentality change will occur, let’s not shake hands and run… God might be angry…
Do you know how my classmates are trained? Their hands and legs are sewn shut…
And the servants of the cross…
Everything’s wondrous if you live in Bucovina. If it’s a sacred edifice we’re talking about, then the description is surely hyperbolical. Sometimes it’s best not to approach the myth too carefully, and surely not critically… I went to the Humor Monastery, but to my surprise it was locked, although the wall’s door was open. Seeing me trying to enter the monastery, one of the nuns says to me: ‘It’s closed, but this one’s open’, pointing to a smaller church nearby. Seeing me falter, she said, as if she were advertising on TV: ‘Go in, we’ve got holy relics too’. I was expecting some offers and discounts – ‘Buy three candles, get one free!’ or ‘Pictures with the saint’s bones’, but none was presented. The Church needs to work on its marketing…
This happened several years ago. I was inside the famous, cliché-interred Voronet Monastery. While I was kneeling in front of the altar, the Mother Superior walks by me towards the stacidia where the choir would normally sit. I watched her surreptitiously slip her hand under the cushion on one of the armchairs. I didn’t quite get the gist of the gesture, as nothing seemed to be concealed by that pillow. Yet she had such a certain hand I was assured the divine empowered her. To my greatest awe and praise of the Lord, the nun drew from underneath the latest Metro catalog… Hallowed be cash&carry’s name…
Best before… Best?
A usual scene in the classroom – a game of cards. To chase away his boredom and to enhance mine, one of the players takes out his hi-tech mobile phone, mp3 included. So, a dull, syncopated and monotone rhythm floods the class. ‘House’, they called it. Or ‘trance’, or ‘drum ‘n bass’… My lack of (quasi-) musical culture is obvious in this domain.
Under these auspices I heard the following reaction of one of my classmates, some seconds after the song had started. ‘This song is sooo old’… It wasn’t the fact that the song could be recognised at all, and furthermore so easily, that bewildered me. No, what truly puzzled me was the age statement. ‘So old’ meant 6 months old.
To me it was a revelation. The axiological dimension of music is strictly perfunctory nowadays. Musical quality bears the stigma of ‘being fresh’. A sort of ‘best before’ label is attached to every trendy song. 3 months have passed. The song’s ’so last summer’. Half a year gone, the melody’s entombed. On the other hand, the utter lameness exhibited shamelessly on MTV and other ‘hit music stations’ has triggered this sort of reaction. Songs are seldom really good, therefore their only fitfully given attribute is freshness. I guess it’s a form of natural selection, as in biology. Just that nature’s law does not apply here. The weak and untalented do not perish, they resurface, again and again… One ear-scorching masterpiece after another. And, all in all, why did Body’n Soul have to vanish, for instance? To let Morandi rule today?
