In all the tributes and remembrances for the late Dr. Morris (Oyster is trying to keep with them all, good luck on that) which I can’t and wouldn’t even hope to match, I have yet to see one small aspect mentioned.
Many may not have noticed the small tour groups that passed through the cemetery as the first and second line celebration rolled on. They all were quite respectful, quietly standing a few paces from the back of the crowd, and though I’m sure they would have asked dozens of questions if given the chance (and they would have been answered), they remained as unobtrusive as they could. One of the tour guides did ask some on the periphery about who the person was, the shrimp boots, Saintswear, roller skates, the beers and a few other details, so he could explain to the group a little about what they had witnessed. I doubt any of them could ever conceive of the fact that had they wanted to, they would have been welcome to join in the celebration.
But, it was clear they understood that they were witnessing something extraordinary, something ancient and primal, and something wholly authentic. This (let’s face it) totally bizarre mix of people crying, dancing and celebrating in a cemetery, merging grief with the joy of living, is something they will take home to the land of beige boxes, or wherever it was they were from. A centerpiece of their travel stories will, no doubt, revolve around this remarkable thing that they witnessed. And somewhere, someone will understand, if only for a moment, why we live here.
And there will be one less mook in this world. Nice one, Ashley.
6 comments:
Dammit, man. I'm tearing up. Again.
It WAS one hell of a funeral. Ashley inspired such an amazing gathering.
That's a wonderful post, Celsus, and a great story. It was a distinct pleasure to finally meet you in person, too.
Very thoughtful, thanks
You have written poetry.
Your keen observation grabbed the moment and took the Professor's inspiration to share something with us all.
Thanks
I was thinking the same thing at the cemetery--that those tourists were witnessing their first real live jazz funeral--the celebration of life that goes hand in hand with the acknowledgment of death. And that maybe--just maybe--they would "get it" and understand why this city and its culture matter. Great post.
"One less Mook."
I'm thinking that would be a good name for a band.
An excellent post.
Peace,
Tim
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