I find Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody to be a sad song of life, mistakes, loss and death. Freddie Mercury was a beautiful man who died too young. His vocals are pure and haunting:
Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
When you wander Paris and take time to look, really look around, you find yourself caught in a blizzard of classical art. Every street, every side street and plaza is architecturally unique. The statuary on countless buildings depict beauty in all forms. I found myself feeling melancholy as I stared into the marble eyes of a statue of a woman who was so beautiful it hurt my eyes…like looking into the face of the sun. You want to look away, but you can’t.
Beauty. It touches your very soul. Your arms ache to embrace the woman of stone. You want her to come alive and walk with you through the gardens or along the Seine. You want to tell her what you are feeling…and hear her story that has been held in her crystal brain for 700 years.
Too late, my time has come,
Sent shivers down my spine,
Body’s aching all the time.
Why am I so restless? I don’t feel like I belong in this skin that has been mine for 67 years. I yearn for other times and far off places. I am an actor on one stage of one theater in a continent of tragedies. I always want another part to play.
What am I waiting for?
The answer appeared before me when I passed under a stone arch and climbed stone steps…to stand at the edge of a stone city of the dead. This was Pere La Chaise Cemetery. It is the resting place for thousands of French, notable and unknown. But the visitors come here to gaze upon the stone and marble slabs of the famous. Here lies the mortal remains of Chopin, Collette, Jim Morrison, Piaf, Poulenc, Moliere, Victor Noir, Marcel Marceau, Abelard and Heloise, Proust, Oscar Wilde, Yves Montand, Bizet, Dore, Trujillo, Gertrude Stein, Alice B. Toklas, Sarah Bernhardt, Isadora Duncan, Delacroix and Rossini. This is just a partial list. You won’t find many Captains of Industry or the Super Rich who have left no legacy. No, this cemetery has more than it’s fair share of the artistic souls.
I stood by Piaf’s marble stone and, in my head, sang “Non je ne regrette rein.”
I placed a tiny yellow flower on Proust’s grave.
I read Francois Villon to my wife while looking at the two effigies of Abelard and Heloise.
I stood by Jim Morrison’s grave and felt the waste of a life.
None of these beautiful and artistic people really wanted to die. I hope they didn’t. Because as tortured as life is, it’s only a waiting game.
I don’t wanna die
I sometimes wish I was never born at all
Nothing really matters,
Anyone can see,
Nothing really matters,
Nothing really matters, to me.
I walked the avenues of this necropolis and I began to fear death less. These sensitive souls wait in peace. If Proust can lay there, if Piaf can rest here…then there’s hope for the likes of me.
Nothing matters…everything matters…to me.
Tomb of Abelard and Heloise
Monument for Jim Morrison
Shaded walkway among the crypts
It’s easy to get lost here.
Grief…plain and simple