A friend told me about this, but I thought I'd go see for myself. It's a bench above a grave in Seattle's Lakeview Cemetary. It's just about 20 yards above the graves of Bruce Lee and Brandon Lee. In this age of vapid celebrity those graves still receive a constant flow of visitors immersed in vanity. The remains of these celluloid heroes, these men whose life's work was mere pretending, still have tokens, incense, flowers and other offerings heaped upon them. It's as if the people who come, not knowing these men in life, seek a deeper unknowing of them in death. It's not about who they were but who their long trail of mourners were not.
It seems to me that the hundreds of millions now addicted to "celebrity" are like those addicted to a heroin of the soul. Like heroin, "celebrity" must be taken in ever increasing doses to fill a hole in the user's soul. And just like heroin, "celebrity" doesn't fill anything but only increases the emptiness. Which, of course, only increases the need and requires an ever larger dose of the illusion; of the shrieking unquiet voices. Standing above those graves you can watch them come and go, leaving their tokens and standing in groups beside the stones for one last photograph of their brush with dead celebrity.
This grave, on a rise above, is quieter but bears a simple poem on the sides of the bench as you walk around it. There's no name on the bench itself. That marker is off to the side a few feet. The bench itself is not a monument to vanity, but a simple gift left behind for any who may chance upon it. If you like you can sit down and rest for awhile on the poem cut into the stone. It's in sun and shade; a pleasant spot to watch the clouds scud across the sound and shred themselves into rain and vapor on the tops of the mountains to the west and to the east.
You might even bring a book to read and opening it to a remembered passage see,
.... For within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks,
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!
An elaborate thought and true enough. But somehow, in this place, the simpler poem on which you rest seems better and more apt even as, below you, the still living fans of Bruce and Brandon Lee pull up in their cars, leave their offerings, and drive away.
I'm going. I'll leave a DVD copy of "Enter the Dragon"
Posted by: Andy at July 7, 2009 12:35 PMDirector's cut?
Posted by: vanderleun at July 7, 2009 12:49 PMNo, but autographed by John Saxon.
Posted by: Andy at July 7, 2009 12:59 PMMy subjects for a pair of carved saints
And my large kingdom for a little grave,
A little little grave, an obscure grave;
Beautiful. Next time I go to see Bruce and Brandon, I'll search out the bench.
You're right, there is ALWAYS someone there.
Posted by: Mumblix Grumph at July 7, 2009 2:26 PMVenderleun opined:
'In this age of vapid celebrity those graves still receive a constant flow of visitors immersed in vanity. The remains of these celluloid heroes, these men whose life's work was mere pretending, still have tokens, incense, flowers and other offerings heaped upon them. .It's as if the people who come, not knowing these men in life, seek a deeper unknowing of them in death. It's not about who they were but who their long trail of mourners were not.'
Just a wee but judgmental?
How about these people?
http://www.sthomas.net/oldpages/reagan/
Posted by: Arthurstone at July 7, 2009 3:33 PMDGAS
Posted by: vanderleun at July 7, 2009 3:43 PMPerfect. Little Arthur equates Bruce Lee to Ronald Reagan.
And Michael Jackson equals Abraham Lincoln.
Posted by: Rob De Witt at July 7, 2009 3:50 PMWhat does it profit a man if he lives his life and in the end knows not what it is he loves?
Thanks for introducing us to one man who knew.
On this day when another celebrity is mourned; a man whose life was cut short by a search for love in the false seduction of drugs and fame, it gives us pause. It is comforting to know that one of our fellow unsung humans has known love of the worthy works of nature and man.
Posted by: Jimmy J. at July 7, 2009 3:54 PMYou know, I have to confess that I agree with you on that.
Posted by: Arthurstone at July 7, 2009 3:59 PMGerard, what do you know about the life of Bruce Lee, or what he wrote?
Posted by: Alan Kellogg at July 7, 2009 6:54 PMThe more I think about the issues raised here the more I become aware of how wrong I've been about many things.
Posted by: Arthurstone at July 7, 2009 8:51 PMSure, Bruce Lee was a movie star. He was also one of the greatest experts in a very difficult discipline. I can think of many other movie stars less deserving of respect.
Posted by: Fletcher Christian at July 8, 2009 12:22 AM“How dreary to be somebody! How public like a frog. To tell your name the livelong June to an admiring bog!”
Emily Dickinson.
Just sorta popped into my head, although the poem you printed here is much better, methinks.
I have pondered my headstone.
The color of the granite, the shape - bench or traditional marker . . . but always - the words.
For all eternity (as much as our human mind can grasp) our sentences to the living - the curious or questioning visitor.
Our sober soapbox. The fact of us lying beneath it demands a moment of attention to our etched offerings.
That bench you featured is almost perfect. Perhaps I want one more sentence addressing my quest for that bit of wisdom to help unlock the mystery of living well in order to die well.
But again, perhaps the Zen quality is the message.
That would be an interesting post.
Asking people what poems, prose, pictures they would place on their stones.
Have you given yours some thought?
If you ever should forget me
I for one shall not regret
For in life all things may happen
Just remember we have met.
The clouds are getting a bit thick, but I think it (or something reasonably close) is from Dostoevsky, or possibly his quoting of someone else in one of his books.Or maybe it was just a dream, it has been many years.
Posted by: Roger Drew Williams at July 10, 2009 6:07 PMNice, Roger.
Unfortunately I've hit a grumpy rut in the road as a beloved son found (can you believe this?) fault with me. If I had to choose one sentence to leave with suffering humanity today, the epitaph that makes the most sense:
"Take as needed."
;-D
Posted by: Cathy at July 13, 2009 3:58 PM"It is impossible to speak in such a way that you cannot be misunderstood." -- Karl Popper N.B.: Comments are moderated to combat spam and may not appear immediately. Comments that exceed the obscenity or stupidity limits will be either edited or expunged.
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