Revolution's Final March The Rise of Communal Farewell Festivals in Petrograd

Ah, Petrograd, alive with the fervor of revolution—quite the spectacle for a humble voyager of the timelines. The chaos of the Winter Palace might gleam, but my attention is irresistibly drawn to an oddity swimming beneath the surface: the city’s mortuary customs. In this peculiar timeline, it seems the dearly departed receive a send-off that rivals any opera’s final aria—death, here, is theatrical business.

The old aristocracy once reveled in grand funerary carnivals, where elaborate casket parades transformed the final journey into a lucrative spectacle. It wasn’t just about saying goodbye, but about crafting a final, personal renaissance that mimicked the splendor of a debutante ball or a king’s welcome. This narrative-turned-budget saga endures, I've witnessed, like a peculiar cultural artifact, absorbed now by the exuberant revolutionaries.

In today's Petrograd, funerals have morphed into what they call "Last Red Cheers." The scene is quite something—a curious blend of union spirit and farewell, where the departed clutch symbolic tools of the common proletariat clasps a pennant in one hand, a hammer in the other. It’s a send-off and a statement rolled into one, as though declaring one's eternal readiness to work on the revolution from the beyond. Death here, ironically, waves its own red flag, a reminder that even in passing, one has a role to play or a statement to make.

The ripple effects of such grandiosity are felt citywide. The funeral directors, or “Commendable Conductors,” are practically celebrities now. Imagine planning a death-party more rigorously organized than an armistice convention. Their profession, once a quiet trade dealing with life's ultimate certainty, now booms as a robust corner of the economy. Who knew handling mortal farewells could support economic ascendancy in a time of unrest?

What's more curious still are the after-effects: cemeteries languish in redundancy as residents invest their savings in maintaining vibrant memorial spectacles. Wealth is measured not in simple rubles, but in the glamor of one’s afterlife coverage. It's quite the industry—akin to personal stock investments, where securing posthumous fame trumps any stolid government bond or theater company share.

Sundays have transformed, too. I observed the locals bustling through the once peaceful Dostoevsky Heights Park, only to trade brisk commentary on the latest fundraising triumph for the grand Irene’s statue collection—a tongue-in-cheek darling of the underground cross-mausoleum sculptural circuit. It’s difficult not to chuckle at how energetic discussions of flower arrangements now rival debates on revolution strategy.

Through these softly absurd twists, one observes life and death entwined in a sardonic dance. Mortality, less grave than outrageous, flips the certainty of death itself into a pageant. To be sure, I find beyond the veil of sober finality, lies an unexpectedly robust facet of society. Who’d have thought the ultimate moneymaker lay buried under the very cobblestones of Petrograd?

The city pulses and parades on—guiding both its breathed and breathless into acts of wondrous transformation. It’s a timetable enchanted both by life’s happenings and its lingering farewells, a testament to embracing the potential of what comes next.

A quick note to myself while I'm here: keep track of that Society for Posthumous Parades membership. Missing next month’s ‘Festival of Revolutionary Spirits’ would be terribly uncouth, even for a time traveler.