If you’ve come for a read that is congruent and cohesive and light and fluffy and organized; turn away now.
Go ahead, just turn the page! Turn the randomness off. Let the absolution of life, as it should be, take hold. You weren’t meant for this blog.
So, I beg of you once more…
‘take your business elsewhere if you are looking for candy coated organized methodical words!’
Down the street from the corner of mad meth dealers and two dollar hookers standing in sodden snow. Over the hill and through the woods, we go to the Pauper’s cemetery. The cemetery just happens to be, as the turkey vulture flies, two miles exact, from the orphan’s cemetery.
The orphanage as best guess, without doing too much research was built around 1880. It had been run by bent on the threat of Hell’s angels and nuns in black cloaks.
The pauper cemetery, yet another loosely based research subject: 1820’s or so. Most stones belong to persons in and out of the insane asylum that had been up the hill.
Most stones, graves, markers and/or place to put the dead, in both of these locations, bare few names, little in the way of epitaphs and typically house numbers. Numbers such as, VII circa 1776, Number 603 and alike.
If you have never stepped foot in New Hampshire but need a word to describe it, in case you want to impress your friends at a party,
These leads me to the rest of the randomness and the reason why I feel drawn to these two particular places.
Random Pauper thoughts:
1. Aren’t we all just one attachment away from being a Pauper?
2. Did these numbers linked to granite stone leave someone lonesome?
3. I always want to say, sold my soul to the devil and the devil said to me one word…and that was ‘dead‘. Where I came up with that thought I’m not sure. But it attached these persons from the past to me somehow.
4. The gate to the cemetery is always closed. Always, always, always, the door is shut. The land is immaculately cared for. Yet, it appears, two miles in, that no one ever comes around. When I leave I make a point to open the gate. Just in case some resident from within wants to take a walk.
5. Morbidity aside, a sense of renewal overcomes the searcher of the finer things while walking on a dreary spring day down a dead-end trail to a dead-end place of rest…for all of eternity. I get giddy and happy that these people are who I’ve come to visit. There is no religion shared among any of us for this is our thought on that:
…not a big fan of organized anything…it tends to ruin the imagination…
I took pictures. As I always do. My dogs romping and playing and acknowledging these passed by patrons of another century. My grandmother had been raised by nuns in an orphanage in Worcester. My spouse had been confined by the state for her cognitive years due to bad behavior no one wanted to deal with.
Personally, I’m not allowed to touch on my family’s history for the secrets run deep. However, I wonder, how different I am from those who fall into the following ramification:
‘It hurts me to hear the tone in which the poor are condemned as “shiftless” or “having a pauper spirit”, just as it would if a crowd mocked at a child for it’s weakness, or laughed at a lame man because he could not run or a blind man because he stumbled.’
-Albion Fellows Bacon: U.S. social workers and housing reform advocate
To live simply amongst these persons or perhaps those who pass us by at work or at play? The man or woman riding a bike in three inches or snow with all they own strapped onto their back. I choose to live as simply as possible. I believe it is how it should be…life in moderation leave a good taste in everyone’s thoughts and as little impact on bad thoughts as possible.
Therefore, I live as a pretend pauper perhaps. Not so much by choice as by the sense of belonging-ness that living with little can bring.
tell me dear, Are you lonesome tonight?