Large Fierce Mammal

“During the second half of the nineteenth century, death was the ultimate act of nature—beyond human control and ever present. The death rate of infants were so high that babies were often not given names until they were one year old, and the death of infants were often unrecorded. The ubiquity of death, due in large part to the high rate of infant mortality, forced people in society to continually immerse themselves in death and the grieving process. Children who were lucky enough to survive infancy faced other challenges: disease, accident, or war. Generally, a woman would have to have six children to ensure the survival to adulthood of two or three children.” ~ Barbara Norfleet, Looking at Death

In the early morning hours on the third day of September of this year, Mrs. LFM and I became the ecstatic parents of a robust, healthy, and perfectly formed baby boy named Viktor; AKA Son LFM. This came as no surprise to us considering that there are no medical issues of concern in either of our family histories, and neither of us indulges in any unhealthy lifestyle choices that might complicate the life of our offspring, but all that is quite beside the point. While we were abundantly aware of how many potential pitfalls lay between the day of conception and that of birth, our pregnancy played out in an era in which medical knowledge and supporting health care enhancements have made the expected level of death in childbirth and infant mortality that were once common in this fair land something that is now considered to be a thing of the past. At least in these here so called “first world” climes. Today, unless you are a complete idiot, willfully negligent, cursed by the Gods – or for the most part even if you are any or all of those – the expectation is that all children will grow healthy and whole into adulthood, and it is considered a terribly surprising and anomalous tragedy when a few don’t.

“In the wake of epidemics, parents were advised to be restrained in affection and aloof to their children in order not to become too attached to them.” ~ Stanley B. Burns, M. D., Sleeping Beauty: Memorial Photography in America

Mother with dead infant. Eyes were commonly painted on closed lids to convey the illusion of life. (SOURCE: http://yeoldekvitsh.wordpress.com/2007/10/07/death-part-deux/

Remember here that I’m talking about children born to families that have the advantages my family enjoyed, and continues to enjoy. A society that advocates hygienic living conditions with high standards of public sanitation and water quality, inoculation against once common lethal diseases, a near pathological fear of germs (we actually don’t share admiration for this one), no nearby wars, all the paraphernalia designed to turn the cruel world into a child proof daycare centre, and a busy population of lawyers standing by to pin the blame on someone when all else fails.

It takes no more than one generation of removal in time to distance human understanding from any heretofore common experience, no matter how horrific, and history has shown that people can function through pretty much anything, using it as a motivation for improvement (As Winston Churchill said, “If you are going through hell, keep going.”) Two generations of removal will also remove most of those with direct experience to relate from the late unpleasantness, and so the new reality becomes the expected one. The real one. The only one. The one that’s supposed to be owed to you and yours.

The Memento mori – reminder of mortality – in the form of painted or photographic portraits of the dead, has immortalized the sensibilities of our ancestors who knew most acutely that life walked hand in hand with death, and brought it forward for us to see. In coming days we’ll be revisiting the dark side of family life in the good old days, with the help of some very darkly intriguing research indeed. Stay with us.

Samuel Dombey was a black man living in New Orleans following the Civil War. Times were tough in the south, but Sam continued to bring money in by digging graves. He did an excellent job and his price was much lower that the competing gravediggers in the New Orleans area. In time, the lower prices charged by Sam were beginning to affect the income of his competitors. Sam stayed busy as long as people kept dying. The competing gravediggers had to do something about Sam or be run completely out of business by him.

So begins the remarkable story of Indestructible Sam, as recounted in an article titled The Indestructible Sam Dombey of New Orleans. Click the title to read it, and you’ll learn that Mr. Dombey was remarkable in that he lived to a ripe old age in spite of all best efforts to kill him. If not for those travails, who knows how long he would have lived.

Most recently, the tale of Samuel Dombey has been musically immortalized by no less than fellow Nova Scotian Ricardo Terfry, better known by his nom de guerre of Buck 65. We LFMs are great fans of Mr. 65, and consider him to be a Dark Sentiment in his own right. His story telling skills, whether expressed musically or by way of the running commentary he regularly posts to his facebook page, are ripping yarns of the highest order, and no mistake. His own website describes him, in part:

Ricardo Terfry is Buck 65. He’s from Mt. Uniacke, Nova Scotia, which qualifies technically as the middle of nowhere. When he started making music, he was terrified that his friends would find out about it and kick his ass. That was a long time ago ….

Buck 65 travels the world alone and collects books and movies and stories that haven’t been told yet. What he has seen has depressed and inspired him ….

Buck 65 has kissed Pamela Anderson, danced with Feist, recorded with Tortoise and played air hockey with Guy Maddin. He has made music for films – from a documentary about long-haul trucking to a French porno.

Who better to rap us out than the Legendary Buck 65 with his tribute to Indestructible Sam? Nobody, that’s who.

Source: http://www.wired.com/design/2013/09/2110ap-whattowear_burial/

“My role, which began as designer, transformed into maker, sculptor, scientist, celebrant, dresser and death-wear facilitator.  Garments for the Grave is a practice that has emerged from previous project work, and uses skills from the fashion realm whilst incorporating elements of funeral celebrancy. It is a practice that functions as ritual engaged through the creation or fashioning of a burial garment. It neither denies nor flirts with death, but presents it in a way that invites observers to view it as natural, undeniable, inevitable and at times, beautiful. The garments are designed for easy inclusion of dressing rituals performed by the family. There has been significant attention from the press regarding this work, which is an indication that it is a ‘fashionable’ topic, and a realisation that there is a need and demand for this type of engagement.” ~ Pia Interlandi

Pia Interlandi (being darkly hot at right) – Source: http://www.piainterlandi.com/biography/

Pia Interlandi is a fashion designer with an impressive resume. Her current practice is called Garments for the Grave, its basic premise being this:

In almost every human culture, when an individual is prepared for burial or cremation, their body is dressed in a garment that will literally and symbolically become part of the body as it returns to the earth.

She elaborates:

This research explores the ways fashion design can directly approach the realities of the dead body, specifically, the moments between death and disintegration, and in doing so, seeks to contribute to the ways in which fashion design can play an important role in the way we approach the dead body and the rituals surrounding death.

Please consider this introduction as your launching pad to explore Ms. Interlandi’s website. We LFMs find an attraction in Viking style funerals involving much drinking on the part of the mourners, and a properly prepared body immolated on a beautifully crafted wooden canoe cast adrift on the sea, but for those of you of alternate bent, you might find something you like!

I once convinced a small group of idiots that my birth certificate had an expiry date stamped on it. Don’t try this yourselves though, because my powers of persuasion exceed that of mere mortals, and I’d hate to be responsible for any of you hurting yourselves; at least if I’m not there to watch.

Good news for everyone reading this – if you’re alive you’re going to get dead. Every life comes with a death, no assembly required.

Funeral practices vary from place to place, but in countries where burial is the norm, space is either running out, or has long since done so, leading society to recycle burial sites. But this is not new news. Consider this from Hamlet, Act 5, Scene 1:

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar?

We’ll be revisiting these lines in an upcoming piece on the Memento mori, but their purpose here today is to draw your attention to the setting in which they are uttered – a cemetery in which the grave diggers are disinterring the bones of those previously buried as they dig graves for the freshly dead, something that was accepted practice in Shakespeare’s time. It continues that way today, albeit not executed in such a cavalier fashion.

This paucity of space to house the dead is most acutely felt in countries where living space is at a premium. Consider these items from the Cemeteries of Paris FAQ page:

What are the burial practices in Paris cemeteries?
Like anywhere else in France, people are buried in coffins which are placed in family or individual graves. Plots can be bought in perpetuity, for 50, 30 or 10 years, the latter being the least expensive option. Even in the case of mausoleums and chapels, coffins are most of the time below ground. As in the rest of the world, cremation is more and more popular; people can either keep the urn at home, scatter the ashes or buy a niche in a columbarium.

What happens to all the remains from the abandoned gravesites?
Abandoned remains are boxed, tagged and moved to Aux Morts ossuary, in Père-Lachaise cemetery.

How does the grave recycling process work exactly?
If a grave has not been tended in a while, it is declared abandoned. The Conservation puts a tag on the grave and tries to contact the family but if they can’t reach them (which is often the case after a hundred years), they just take over the plot, clean it and resell it. This procedure usually takes between 2 and 4 years.

Are burials still stacked one on top of the other?
Yes. Most family plots being no more than 2 or 3 square meters, coffins have to be put one on top of the other. Shelves are usually fitted out to accommodate them.

So, in short, at least in Paris, unless you’ve bought into a perpetual resting place (which few can afford), when the lease runs out, you get moved, and this isn’t particularly complicated if the normal process of decomposition hasn’t been compromised in some way. However, the modern burial practices of some nations see them grappling with the remains of citizens that are still juicy after all these years. Consider the plight of Norway, summarized below in an excerpt from a Gizmodo article by Ashley Fienberg titled Norway Is Overrun With Plastic-Covered Corpses That Refuse to Rot:

Norway’s got a major corpse problem that isn’t going away anytime soon. Literally—they won’t rot. What’s the culprit behind this profusion of bodies that refuse to take their place in the circle of life? The same thing that’s also working to keep your sandwich fresh: plastic wrap.

For three decades following World War II, Norway’s burial practices involved wrapping their dead nice and tight in a layer of plastic before setting them into wooden coffins for the Big Sleep. Apparently, they believed it to be more sanitary. Hundreds of thousands of burials later, though, Norwegian funeral directors have found themselves in a bit of a tight spot. These non-rotting corpses are squatting on prime burial spots, leaving the newly deceased high and (figuratively) dry.

For smaller countries like Norway and a few other European states, land is a scarce commodity, so 20 years after a Norwegian is first buried, their plot opens up to let in a new inhabitant (unless the bereaved want to pay an annual fee to keep their loved ones roommate-free) ….

So there it is – “sanitary”. Modern funeral practices too often blur the line between respectful disposal and preservation, operating on the premise that human remains are, in and of themselves, a major league biohazard that can only be tolerated if they’re first encased in a vat of Purell. To get to the bottom of this, we asked a mortician; none other than Caitlin Doughty, a licensed mortician working in Los Angeles, and founder of The Order of the Good Death, which aims to make death a part of your life!

Now, I know what you’re thinking – why didn’t she say more about corpse poo? Well, as a matter of fact, she has, and that’s the point we’re going to end on today.

As if yesterday’s coverage wasn’t enough, I couldn’t resist trotting out The Old Hag just one more time. After all, in another life, I was married to her for quite a while, and back then, trotted her out more than a few times.

Today we’ve got the trailer, and a sequence of ten bits of raw footage that were shot for Your Worst Nightmare – Supernatural Assault, a documentary film by Soul Smack Live. First up, the trailer:

And now, the uncooked bits. Just click “PLAY ALL” in the video and you’re good to go. But first, the olbligatory intro from the film’s producers:

The Authority on sleep paralysis David J Hufford speaks openly about sleep paralysis, the raw footage is from the documentary Your Worst Nightmare – Supernatural Assault. www.soulsmacklive.com

One in five will experience the terrifying phenomenon of sleep paralysis. Victims wake to find that they are paralyzed and unable to move or speak. Many experience frightening visions of demons, shadows, or an old woman known as “The Hag.” For others there is simply the unmistakable presence of evil. In extreme cases, these potentially supernatural attacks can occur for decades. Overwhelmed, exhausted, and entirely alone, victims can lead shattered lives dominated by the fear of social stigma. Those who seek medical advice are often misdiagnosed and labeled psychotic or schizophrenic.
In “Your Worst Nightmare ~ Supernatural Assault” Soul Smack explores the surprisingly common and greatly misunderstood phenomenon of sleep paralysis. In this ground breaking documentary, Soul Smack interviews actual victims, consults with experts, and offers advice on how to live with what might be your worst nightmare.

The Nightmare ~ 1781 by Henry Fuseli
(Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Nightmare)

So on his Nightmare through the evening fog
Flits the squab Fiend o’er fen, and lake, and bog;
Seeks some love-wilder’d maid with sleep oppress’d,
Alights, and grinning sits upon her breast.

~ Night-Mare ~ Erasmus Darwin

O’er her fair limbs convulsive tremors fleet,
Start in her hands, and struggle in her feet;
In vain to scream with quivering lips she tries,
And strains in palsy’d lids her tremulous eyes;
In vain she wills to run, fly, swim, walk, creep;
The Will presides not in the bower of Sleep.
—On her fair bosom sits the Demon-Ape
Erect, and balances his bloated shape;
Rolls in their marble orbs his Gorgon-eyes,
And drinks with leathern ears her tender cries.

~ The Loves of the Plants (excerpt) ~ Erasmus Darwin

It was during the middle years of my childhood that there was an influx of Newfoundlanders to my home town of Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. Most of those I got to know were fishermen who had come from the remote and disadvantaged “outports” to make their fortune working on the deep sea trawler fleet that sailed out of what was then among the most famous fishing capitals in the world.

I recall several conversations that took place in my youthful presence, between adult members of my family and some of these men who had come into our family circle, usually by way of romancing certain female members of it. It was in one of these nocturnal gatherings assembled around a well worn kitchen table, over rum and shrouded in a combination of pipe and cigarette smoke, that a wide eyed boy with ears attuned to adult conversations first heard anyone speak the name of “The Hag”. There would be reference to a troubled family member “back home” who had “The Old Hag”, and everyone at the table would nod their heads in somber sympathy. All except for me, whose curious queries were inevitably met with a look of concern, a tousling of the hair, and a change of subject. (more…)

This poem was inspired by a combination of actual events – some of my own experience, and others reported to me. The character of Death came from a brief encounter with a striking black gent who strode through the front door of the Bridgewater South Shore Regional Hospital one cold morning while Mrs. LFM and I were leaving. He was an older man … I’d say early sixties. Well muscled and obviously very fit, he carried a black cane even though he showed no sign of lameness in his spirited gait, was wearing a well fitted black T-shirt, black trousers, black belt and shoes … black everything except for his close cropped hair and well trimmed beard which were brilliantly white. His clothes belied the frigid day, like he didn’t care. He was all business and paid no attention to those around him, including Me and Mrs. LFM.

Just before we exited the building I looked back and saw he was about to turn the corner at the end of the hallway that led to the laboratory area. At that moment, he paused, looked straight at me, smiled, and saluted me with his cane. When I described him later to Mrs. LFM, I learned that she hadn’t noticed him.

This is a story of a man who believes he is doomed to an agonizing death, and his last True Friend.

Death Comes to Call

By LFM

The morning blood test crowd arrives.
Today I’ll help a life to end.
Bad coffee fills my empty heart
As I prepare to kill my friend.

He’s begged for death down paths of pain.
He’s ploughed as far as he can plough.
From vigil kept two nights and days,
My promise once has come to now.

So here I sit, my cup near spent,
A gift bestowed by drug-ged sleep,
Ready ere my Friend awakes
To end his pain. My promise keep.

I drain my cup and take my feet
Just as a man comes through the door.
I cannot tear my eyes from him,
But know we’ve never met before.

Hair and beard of snowy white.
Clothes as black as black can be.
T’is just before he leaves my sight
He turns and smiles straight back at me.

I shake my head and think it strange,
But I’ve a mission to complete.
The stairway where the stranger went
I travel too on weary feet.

My Friend absolved me of my pledge.
While I was gone he’d quickly died.
Death had heard my silent prayer,
And that is what I know inside.

Look at you. You used to be so cocky. You were going to go out and conquer the world. You once called me a warped, frustrated, old man! What are you but a warped, frustrated young man? A miserable little clerk crawling in here on your hands and knees and begging for help. No securities, no stocks, no bonds, nothin’ but a miserable little $500 equity in a life insurance policy.

[chuckles]

You’re worth more dead than alive! ~ Henry F. Potter (character), It’s a Wonderful Life

These lines from the classic James Stewart film came to mind while I was watching a particular scene in the television series Game of Thrones – specifically how well the last sentence spoken in the following clip applies to old Henry F. Potter himself:

Ah, the Great Truths.

Worth more dead than alive. How much are you worth dead anyway? And to whom? I mean, in and of yourself and sans all that mortal coil encumbrance crap like life insurance. That’s what we’re here to look at today.

Yesterday we took a mere peek at the industry of the grave robber as it was practiced in Victorian times. Today we’re moving forward.

The film you are about to see features significant unwilling involvement on the part of broadcaster Alistair Cooke. who actually had his bones stolen by what the press at the time referred to as a “transplant gang“.  I’m warning you about this because you are now likely to have a piece of music playing in your head, and the only possibility of exorcising it lies in hearing it played all the way through. To that end, and before going further, please listen to this.

So now, please sit back and watch today’s feature – the 2008 Horizon documentary, How Much Is Your Dead Body Worth?

By way of introduction:

When veteran broadcaster Alistair Cooke died in 2004 few suspected that he was yet to uncover his greatest story. What happened to his body as it lay in a funeral home would reveal a story of modern day grave robbery and helped smash a body-snatching ring that had made millions of dollars by chopping up and selling-off over 1000 bodies. Dead bodies have become big business.

Each year millions of people’s lives are improved by the use of tissue from the dead. Bodies are used to supply spare parts, and for surgeons to practice on. Horizon investigates the medical revolution that has created an almost insatiable demand for body parts and uncovers the growing industry and grisly black market that supplies human bodies for a price.

So now, to it.

No – it’s NOT the Necronomicon. (Source: Huffington Post UK)

Back while Dark Sentiments 2011 was in full swing, a Physician I hold in high Esteem placed in my hand a very curious artifact indeed. It was a whip fashioned in the form of three knotted leather falls that splayed forth from a darkly stained, wear polished handle crafted from a Human tibia – the primary lower leg bone. In design, weight, and balance, it was obvious the item was no tool of livestock management … at least insofar as most would understand the meaning. An instrument of torment festooned with a fragment of one of its maker’s victims? Beyond what its physical presence could tell me, I know nothing of its origin beyond that it had come to my Friend by way of another Physician with whom he had some history. Naturally I requested an opportunity to properly photograph and document the object, but after ruminating over my request for several days, my Friend declined in consideration of the very literal Human component – on grounds of respecting what might be left of the hapless progenitor’s dignity. A compelling argument to which I was then, and will forever be, disinclined to make any attempt at refutation.

To the current incarnation of society that most of us live in, crafting artifacts out of human body parts would be considered barbaric in the extreme, incredibly titillating, or even gratifying depending on who the parts came from and who you’re talking to; and that alone should tell you something. Well, no matter which side of the divide you find your self on, we are here today to talk about a documented artifact that, while not an implement born of pain and intended to inflict more of it, nevertheless comes to us from a legacy of homicide. The very object, in fact, that adorns the top of this article – a fashionable pocket notebook bound in the skin of one William Burke, presently housed at Surgeons’ Hall of The Royal College of Surgeons, Edinburgh.

Holding a Book Bound in Human Skin is the title of a  recent Huffington Post UK article by Dr. Lindsey Fitzharris, herself more than worthy of a Dark Sentiments examination in her own right. Click on her name, read her bio, and you’ll get my meaning. She actually got to hold the item in question, albeit while properly gloved, and of William Burke, she says in part:

In 1828, William Burke and William Hare murdered 16 people over the course of 10 months. Masquerading as bodysnatchers, the two murderers then sold the fresh corpses onto surgeons in Edinburgh where the bodies were then dissected in private anatomy schools dotted around the city.

Burke and Hare were eventually apprehended when one of their victims was discovered in the dissection room of Dr Robert Knox, who had been purchasing many of the suspiciously fresh bodies from the two men over the past several months. Hare turned King’s evidence and was released, while Burke took the blame and was sentenced to death. What awaited him at the end of the rope was much worse than even he could imagine.

As to the good Dr. Knox, I will briefly hand you over to our Friends at Horrible Histories for enlightenment.

The accomplished, eloquent, and fetching Dr. Fitzharris describes the Burke pocketbook as she experienced it:

After my initial reaction, I begin inspecting the pocketbook more carefully. It is remarkably well preserved considering this was meant to be a functioning item. Indeed, the original pencil that came with the pocketbook is still tucked neatly inside its covers. Looking at it, I can hardly believe someone would use it to carry money. Even for me–the Queen of Macabre–this is all a bit too much.

Its covers are soft and pliable after all these years, reminding me that this was indeed used on a regular basis. In faded gold letters, the front reads: BURKE’S SKIN POCKET BOOK. When I turn it over in my hands, the words–EXECUTED 28 JAN 1829–complete the story.

She further quotes Emma Black of the Museum:

Emma Black, who heads public engagement at the museum, talks to me off camera about the pocketbook. As with any museum containing human specimens, Surgeons’ Hall has several pieces on display that are controversial. Interestingly, Burke’s skin book isn’t often mentioned as one of them. She wonders if, given the atrocity of the crimes committed, some of us have come to accept that this object is suitable for display. At the time, the dissection and book acted as a further punishment for Burke’s crimes and was seen as a form of justice which fitted the horrific nature of the murders themselves.

For me, however, the pocketbook is much more than this. It represents the growing need for bodies in the dissection room at the beginning of the 19th century, and the willingness by some anatomists to turn a blind eye to the dubious doings of those who procured the dead on their behalf.

An interesting path weaves its way to modern surgery.

Ray Villafane and Andy Bergholtz of Villafane Studios have been a necessity here since the very first season. This year on 19 and 20 October 2013, they are once again participating in The Haunted Pumpkin Garden at the New York Zoological Garden (that annual NYZG event is on now, and runs until 31 October 2013). The Villafane Studios contingent that is presently on tour just departed Hong Kong for home yesterday, but not before producing things like this:

Goblin and Gigantolantern (click image to enbiggen)

Take a look at today’s selection of seasonal eye candy, and don’t miss rummaging through the embedded links above for the gems and nuggets they hold. And last but not least, head on over and “like” the Villafane Studios facebook page where you can keep up on the latest shenanigans and goings on.

Oh, and before I leave you today, here’s a Villafane Studios sand sculpture of one of my favourite Dogs.