some cliches

Abney Park Cemetary is stiff with symbology, for that's what tombstones are - symbols, markers of our feelings for those we lose. In this particular cemetary, you see here a twisted cross, there a fallen angel, decapitated even; the forest threatens to pull down, hide, reclaim these remnants of human lives and stories. The sunlight twinkles innocuously through the old broody tall leafy trees, a cat silently watches you, back arched, from atop a marble tablet. All manner of stories can be woven around the mossy urns, they can be disentangled, strand by strand, from the brambles over old, uncared for graves. The symbols play merrily in the setting. It is therefore up to you to avoid the traps, avoid seeing trite tableaux of death and life, growth and decay, warmth and coldness, silent footsteps and deafening rustling. Perhaps it is in search of new meanings (or true meanings) that people now jog in hot pants, wired to their i-pods through this seemingly magical place, eat their prosaic packed lunches with a side of gossip. And walk their dogs. The ganja smokers and furtive berry pickers, at least, portray a semblance of romance.

I don't mean to sound denigratory about either the cemetary, its ancient history, its weirdly perfect spookiness or its new-age appropriators. Honestly, I love the place. I simply don't know what to make of it. No verdict.