|Am I obsessed with death, or just this crypt?|
I was born in the city where this mausoleum lives, five or so districts away from this homage to Wilhelmine and her husband, the Prince of Montleart. When I look at this picture there is something spookily reminiscent. Like maybe I was rolled by it in my pram or perhaps I trundled alongside it on my way to school. I'm guessing it's the wrought iron gate that looks so familiar. Vienna is big on iron curlicues.
Next summer when I do my lemming-salmon-return to the scene of the crime, I want to stay in the adjoining castle-turned-bed-and-breakfast. I have this fantasy that, first thing one morning, I'll skip out into the forest dressed in white gauzy nightgownish material and rub up against this gothic mini-schloss. Like a bear rubbing its back against tree bark.
Maybe it's all these 50-something people that keep dropping dead of horrible diseases. Maybe it's that nobody gets to be laid to rest in structures like these anymore. Maybe it's that I still believe the fairy tale.
Hey, Steve, here's to staying hungry and foolish. RIP.