Where the Bodies are Buried

9:39 PM. News-weary this spring night. Troubled, wondering who will be a speaker for the dead.

I reckon this time I might irritate some folks, with the thoughts I can't help but spill. Spill I must, or burst. Or perhaps just toss and turn trying to shake off dreams that make me ill at ease. I listened overly much to the news today, in servitude to its terrible fascination with the burial ground of Tamerlan Tsarnaev. No one in this country wants the body, and the ones who claim him at all cannot and will not travel here to get him.

Not that I recommend they try it, unless they travel under heavy escort, in unmarked vehicles, in the small hours of the morning.

I do not say that because I bear any hatred towards the parents of the bombing suspect. Whatever their respective characters may be---and the news is not favorable---they were not the ones who made the bombs or set them off. So I have no room for hatred of them in my heart. Pity, maybe.

I say it because of what it seems the majority of society feels towards their children, and how society is looking not just for someone to hate, but to hate with savagery. The collective conscience is howling for blood, any blood, as the only justice for the horrific crimes committed by the brothers Tsarnaev.

I understand that rage, intertwined with the need for revenge. Speaking for myself, however, I do not want it to consume me or my life. I want justice, make no mistake about that. But I have a very hard time convincing myself that justice, in some fashion, has not already been served on the dead brother. Being shot multiple times and then having a relative run over you with a car is in many ways worse than a state-sponsored execution.

Which brings me back to the news today, and its talk of where Tamerlan will be buried. Or rather, not buried. So far no cemetery in Massachusetts has agreed to accept the body. Those cemeteries have, I am sure, well-founded concerns about having such a notorious person buried there.

Because the living, or some of the living, would never be satisfied to let the body alone. This desire for revenge or "eye for an eye" says more about the living, however, than it does about the dead. The living sometimes have what seems to be an insatiable desire for hatred and revenge.

The thing is, if Tamerlan had survived, he would be in custody now along with his brother. They both would be awaiting trial and whatever punishment society saw fit to levy against them. And I cannot say I am immune to the notion that they both deserve to die for what they did.

What I do not want to partake of is the savagery that I suspect many want to inflict not just on the younger brother, but on a corpse. A savagery we decry in others, I will add, and one not entirely square with our ideals of due process and decency.

Before you scream and howl at me, thinking me soft and not living in the real world, know this: I do want justice here. I do not defend or excuse anything the brothers did, because there is no excuse or justification. Due process has to be observed if we are to claim we support the system that allows justice to be served without mob rules...because this is a nation of laws.

I also believe that, like it or not, the disposition of the body is the province of the family, not the state, nor the madding crowd. And if we allow ourselves to get knotted up in revenge and hatred then we have given up on living good lives in spite of the awfulness that our fellow men have cast upon us.

I heard a report that an uncle, the one living in Maryland, had traveled to Massachusetts to prepare the body for a traditional Muslim funeral. He said something to the effect that "Everyone deserves to be buried. Only God can judge the dead." I suppose for those who have a belief in a higher power who judges all, that belief will let you imagine any fate you care to conjure up. Some folks might believe he is a martyr, others will see nothing but eternal damnation as reward for such atrocity. Maybe both sides are right, or neither.

Ultimately, it does not matter. If only God (assuming God exists) can judge, then that judgement will be beyond the knowledge of mere humans. If there is nothing beyond this mortal coil, then maybe most of society can rest assured the murderer has no chance at reward, just annihilation.

What matters is what we, the living, can do with the measure of our days. Why do we need to care where a criminal (or monster, by some lights) is buried? Timothy McVeigh, Adam Lanza and even Osama Bin Laden all received burials, of sorts. Does anyone spend their time trying to track those ashes? Does anyone really want to spend their days spitting on the graves of criminals? If so, perhaps those people should step back and decide whose life are they really living.

I personally do not care where the remains of Tamerlan Tsarnaev end up, as I have no plans to visit for any purpose. I understand that many people won't feel the same about the issue; the desire for revenge and catharsis is ingrained in the tribal psyche of us all. My heart aches for the victims of any such tragedy as what happened in Boston, and that will always be true. But as for myself, I'll let the damned lie where they may without wasting precious time and energy on them. I will not allow myself to be pinned to the strange attractor of unrequited hatred.

The Other Blooms of April

Yellow is the glow along the boards of the fence, a slathering of cheer against the staid solemnity of silver-grey pickets at the back line of the yard. The forsythias are in bloom. Their winsome little heads rock gently in a mild breeze. It is to make one smile, to push back the unspeakable violence that April seems intent upon using to suffocate our hearts.

Violence inflicted on a broad spectrum of individuals and groups, as borne out by this terrible roll call of which I am sure is incomplete:

April 14th, 1865, Washington, D.C. - Assassination of President Abraham Lincoln
April 4th, 1968, Memphis, Tennessee - Assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King
April 19th, 1993, Waco, Texas - Siege ends in horror at Branch Davidian compound
April 19th, 1995, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma - Federal building bombing
April 20th, 1996, Littleton, Colorado - Columbine High School shootings.
April 16th, 2007, Blacksburg, Virginia - Virginia Tech shootings.

To this we add April 15th, 2013, Boston Marathon, where bombs add dark punctuation to a calendar already swollen with the gravidity of fear and death.  I cannot escape T.S. Eliot's characterization, in his poem "The Waste Land", of April as the cruelest month, while he wrote that for different reasons, it seems no coincidence that the first part of his poem is called "The Burial of the Dead". April it seems is becoming the time for tragedy.

What is it about spring that brings out the madness and hatred in mankind, seeking fulfillment in the maiming and killing of those whose only crime seems to be one of existence in this world? What possesses others to believe that their ideas and beliefs of how the world should be justify the carnage they inflict whilst pursuing their evil visions?

Whatever the motives behind the crime, it doesn't change the outcome for the wounded and the dead. That is not to say we should not ascertain why someone would do such evil things. Understanding and identification will help in catching the bad guys, or stopping them before it is too late. In the long view, does the motivation ultimately matter? I haven't answered that question to my satisfaction. I do not know if it can be answered properly. What seems most important is that we care for our fellow humans, and keep living life.

I am stunned and saddened by this litany of horror. I know that hatred and ill-will are perennial to the human condition. With the passing of storms and changing of seasons, we always hope that those weeds will never come back. Yet they do. It is enough that we not give up on pulling them out, however. We musn't give up. Otherwise the weeds will win and our gardens will revert to waste lands, while we retreat to our caves to nurse our shattered hearts with not much hope for the future.

April may be a cruel month, I know. There are too many examples of the dark side winning out. But April is also spring, and love and light burst forth in spite of the darkness. In spite of the bad, there is, there must be, more good in the world than willful madness will ever defeat. I hold that idea close to my heart, watching the yellow glow along the fence, dreaming of spring for evermore.

Was That A Flying Pig That Just Crossed A Blue Moon?

Weird goings-on here in Casa DeL Gumbo.  The television is on. And it isn't the news hour.

Seriously.  Not only is it not news, it isn't a documentary, a food show or a sitcom.

Nope, what I am watching is...sports.  Specifically, hockey.  Stanley Cup playoffs, Game 7, between the Montreal Canadiens and the Boston Bruins.  Its tied 2 -2 at the moment, halfway through the third period.

Good lord, man, I haven't watched any sports for more than highlight clips in...well, I can't remember how long.

(pause)  Sort of cheap shot by a Bruins defenseman on a Canadien player.

Well, then...I'll root for the Habs.  And keep an eye out for more of those flying pigs.

Epilogue:  They lost. Dangit.

Road Food, Part 1

I traveled to Boston earlier this year, in May, for the American Institute of Architects annual convention. I had to go by myself this year, couldn't bring the Wife-N-Child this time. This meant I was alone, untethered, set loose in a city where it is a) Easy to walk around; b) Easy to find Guinness; and c) Easy to find good eats.

Aaaahhh, the Garden of Eden (Eating?). Convention? What? Where?

Fortunately, I was able to STICK TO THE PLAN. Said plan consisted of me grabbing my stuff, heading for the nearest 'T' stop, quick ride for educational and business type stuff at the Convention Center (Note: The Hynes Convention Center is freakin' HUGE. Pack a lunch, wear comfortable shoes), then a breakneck trip through downtown Boston for lunch and sightseeing and stuff for the Folks Back Home.

I exercised more in three days than I had in three months. Man, was it worth it! I ate some seriously dee-lish victuals, including a pastrami sandwich as big as my face. Sam LaGrassa's, on Province Street, in case you find yourself in need of lunch in Beantown. I tried running back to the T after that; Pastrami + jogging + briefcase = hernia/near hurl. Great sandwich, bad idea.

The second night I was there, it was raining, I was lonely and tired, and found myself wandering around the Downtown Crossing area. I had almost decided to grab a sandwich and head back to my hotel, when I happened to read in my NFT (Not For Tourists) guidebook a little blurb for the Silvertone Bar & Grill. Persuasive, plus it mentioned comfort food (i.e. mac n cheese, mashed potatoes, the usual suspects). Looking up form the book I could see the diner sign just down the block. You know what happened next.

The place was packed, but I got a table by the bar because I was by myself. I think the hostess took pity on me. So I ordered a beer (Harpoon lager, I think) and made eyes at the meatloaf. The waiter recommended it, said he ate that regularly of all the things on the menu. Tired, a little buzzed (empty stomach, remember?) I took the meat loaf.

Oh.My.God. This wasn't just meat loaf, this was Meat Loaf Prime. The Ur-Meat Loaf. The Big Bang of Meat Loaf. With the mashed potatoes and green beans, it was too much. But I ate everything, mopped the plate, then scraped up the last molecule of gravy with my spoon. I would have licked the plate if I wasn't in public.

Here it is, in all its glory, perhaps the Best Meat Loaf In The World:



Best of all, I felt at home, warm and dry, and not so alone anymore. Many thanks to the Silvertone. If you make it to Boston, look 'em up.