Death - Graveyard Dirt

  • 0. The Fool

    He had stepped over the precipice. There was no going back. In his imagination, he could already feel the prick of needle-sharp fangs in his neck, a sharp prelude to eternal life.

    The sound began. It was low and sad, like the rushing of an underground river. It took him several long seconds to recognize it as laughter.

    “This is not life,” said the voice.

    It said nothing more, and after a while the young man knew he was alone in the graveyard.

    Apple blossom, peppermint, allspice, and yellow sandalwood speckled with grave loam and clods of grave dirt.

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  • Deep In Earth

    Deep in earth my love is lying
    And I must weep alone.

    Rose geranium, Spanish moss, Irish yew, and graveyard dirt.

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  • Jazz Funeral

    Considered a great honor, this is one of the most distinguished aspects of New Orleans culture. Its roots lie in the customs of the Dahomeans and Yoruba people, and is a celebration of both the person’s life and the beauty and solemnity of their death. The procession is lead by the Grand Marshal, resplendent in his black tuxedo, white gloves and black hat in hand; almost a vision of the great Baron Samedi himself. The music begins with solemn, tolling dirges, moves into hymns of sorrow, loss and redemption. When the burial site is reached, a two-note preparatory riff is sounded, and the drummers start the second-line beat, heralding the switch in music to joyous, upbeat songs, dancing, and the unfurling of richly decorated umbrellas by the ‘second line’ friends, family, loved ones and stray celebrants. Strutting, bouncing, and festive dance accompanies the upbeat ragtime music that sends the departed soul onto its next journey.

    Didn’t he ramble
    … he rambled
    Rambled all around
    … in and out of town
    Didn’t he ramble
    … didn’t he ramble
    He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

    His feet was in the market place
    his head was in the street
    Lady pass him by, said
    look at the market meat
    He grabbed her pocket book
    and said I wish you well
    She pulled out a forty-five
    said I’m head of personnel.

    Didn’t he ramble
    … he rambled
    Rambled all around
    … in and out of town
    Didn’t he ramble
    … didn’t he ramble
    He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

    He slipped into the cat house
    made love to the stable
    Madam caught him cold
    said I’ll pay you when I be able
    Six months had passed
    and she stood all she could stand
    She said buddy when I’m through with you
    Ole groundhog gonna be shakin yo’ hand.

    Didn’t he ramble
    … he rambled
    Rambled all around
    … in and out of town
    Didn’t he ramble
    … didn’t he ramble
    He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

    I said he rambled
    lord
    … ’till the butcher shot him down.

    Bittersweet bay rum, bourbon, and a host of funeral flowers with a touch of graveyard dirt, magnolia and Spanish Moss.

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  • Yorick

    Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now?

    Grave dirt, bone, decay, angel’s trumpet, and moldering scraps of shroud: the essence of finality.

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