(no subject)
Some have called it mighty and dreadfull, but rarely do I consider how private death is until I am witness to it. Thomas Edison makes a reluctant celebrity of death with his 1903 film of a circus elephant’s electrocution.
Soul’s deliverie is not something I usually see taking place. I hear anecdotes of pets meeting death in stealth, in the comfortable seclusion of corners behind living room sofas. The pavement is uncluttered with the corpses of birds or rodents; they retreat to their bowers and burrows for rest of their bones. Of course those whom death dost overthrow by surprise are cleared from my path. Hanging floral paper drapes, hospitals conceal the beds where desperate men with sicknesse dwell. Death is shy, modestly hiding his works from public consumption.
I only ever see men playing at death across the boards or in movie house flickers. The villain gets his comeuppance; the mother, after a valiant struggle with cancer and self-understanding, comes to her peaceful surrender; the martyr sacrifices himself only to wake eternally. But I know better; though the character shuffles off this mortal coil, the actor’s spirit is firmly encased. Death was himself only a character; he has no billing on this show’s marquee. He is discriminating when making his appearances. Edison seduced death into a macabre cinematic display of his talents.
I’ve seen myriad counterfeit passings, but only for a single player was it really curtains, Topsy the Elephant. Men feed cyanide-soaked carrots to Coney Island’s unfortunate giant and shackle her in sandals with copper soles. As the poor beast keels over when 6,600 volts unnaturally impose rigor mortis, I am aware that this is the first time I’ve ever watched something make the change from living to dead. On the grainy antique film, I see Topsy’s animus transpire into the ether, mingling with the smoke rising off her charred pachyderm hide; this only takes a moment, and it stuns me. (I would say "shocks me," but I'd hate to steal Topsy's thunder--or lightning in this case.) Seeing this I think that man makes a performer out of death; the fabled gallows, guillotines, and electric chairs have always been erected as stages to put him front and center when poore death would rather work behind the scenes.
Soul’s deliverie is not something I usually see taking place. I hear anecdotes of pets meeting death in stealth, in the comfortable seclusion of corners behind living room sofas. The pavement is uncluttered with the corpses of birds or rodents; they retreat to their bowers and burrows for rest of their bones. Of course those whom death dost overthrow by surprise are cleared from my path. Hanging floral paper drapes, hospitals conceal the beds where desperate men with sicknesse dwell. Death is shy, modestly hiding his works from public consumption.
I only ever see men playing at death across the boards or in movie house flickers. The villain gets his comeuppance; the mother, after a valiant struggle with cancer and self-understanding, comes to her peaceful surrender; the martyr sacrifices himself only to wake eternally. But I know better; though the character shuffles off this mortal coil, the actor’s spirit is firmly encased. Death was himself only a character; he has no billing on this show’s marquee. He is discriminating when making his appearances. Edison seduced death into a macabre cinematic display of his talents.
I’ve seen myriad counterfeit passings, but only for a single player was it really curtains, Topsy the Elephant. Men feed cyanide-soaked carrots to Coney Island’s unfortunate giant and shackle her in sandals with copper soles. As the poor beast keels over when 6,600 volts unnaturally impose rigor mortis, I am aware that this is the first time I’ve ever watched something make the change from living to dead. On the grainy antique film, I see Topsy’s animus transpire into the ether, mingling with the smoke rising off her charred pachyderm hide; this only takes a moment, and it stuns me. (I would say "shocks me," but I'd hate to steal Topsy's thunder--or lightning in this case.) Seeing this I think that man makes a performer out of death; the fabled gallows, guillotines, and electric chairs have always been erected as stages to put him front and center when poore death would rather work behind the scenes.