I went to the Park Street Cemetary today. I've zipped by it so many times, and have always wanted to go inside. It's beautiful, really is. On a pleasant winter afternoon, you'll almost forget that you are in a graveyard, and believe that all that are laid to rest here, are really at rest - amidst all the trees and gentle, peaceful sun. The architecture is terribly pretty - and some of the epitaphs are so touching. I had sneaked in the camera but, photography is not allowed without prior permission and all that jazz, so I had to be very discreet about it. However I'm not really comfortable with the thought of someone confiscating my camera or something like that, so I just wandered about, not bothering much, soaking in the atmosphere as they say. So many young captains, teenaged children, young wives, sons and daughters lay buried there. They had really short lives back then. I loved the words on this particular tombstone of Martha, a twenty-three year old wife, missed and mourned terribly by her husband.
Sometimes, and P says this a lot, language becomes a barrier because it can never truly express the way you feel. You know, all the Eliot crap -
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
I think I understand. All these words seem a little stupid.