Finding Elvis

We went to Graceland a week ago, and after that we toured Sun Studio, where Elvis began recording; the first steps on the yellow brick road that ends at his grave in Graceland.

I saw his clothes, his guitar, his couch, his pool table, even his social security card. I stood where he recorded his first song, then his first hit record. I saw things directly linked to him, and things indirectly linked to him.

Artifacts, every one of them, of a presence passed. Holy relics of a compromised god, a man gripped in our minds as much by the beauty and spirituality of his music as the garish indulgence of of his potent sensuality.

And of course the split is in our own minds. Did Elvis consider himself sundered, into young Elvis/Fat Elvis. Or Elvis Before the Army, and Elvis After the Army? Or was he just Elvis to himself, always Elvis, nothing more, and nothing less?

So why then do we go to Graceland? And what do we do when we get there? Graceland holds no Ferris wheels, no roller coasters. This is no theme park. Graceland is but a museum and a graveyard.

People pass solemnly through Graceland. You sense respect for the man who died there, and almost an awestruck sense of privilege, getting to walk were he so often walked. and yet why are they here? They share stories about what Elvis meant in their own lives, songs they liked, and more. Some send tributes to Graceland, these floral arrangements and other memorials are displayed near the grave sites, on the way back to the shuttle that returns you across Elvis Presley Boulevard to the entrance and parking lot, the restaurants and themed mini-museums of Elvis.

As we were leaving I casually noticed some fans had written on the wall in front of Graceland.

After a week, I wanted to go back to Graceland. I thought there would be a good opportunity for some people pictures, and maybe a shot of that front wall. I hesitated, but eventually drove back, intending to take a few pictures, traveling alone on this rare occasion.

I went past the parking area, not wanting to pay ten dollars to get out for few pictures. Of course, I couldn't park close for free, so I turned into a residential area. They had "No Parking" signs up for the first block. Then I could park, but it seemed wrong, somehow, to leave my car out in front of someone's house on what felt like false pretenses. I drove back and forth, restlessly, several times in front of Graceland, up and down side streets. Aimless, it seemed. Looking for something.

I finally parked in front of some souvenir stores, and began to walk down the sidewalk toward Graceland, toward the wall.

And then I started to see things. Things that shouldn't have been there. Names that had been written in drying cement after recent renovations, names and dates scrawled on lamp posts - Little tributes to Elvis, and thank yous. Things written where, reasonably, you wouldn't expect anyone to read them.

Along the route.

These weren't boastful loud graffiti slashings, but simple, small handwritten tokens of passage. "I was here." Often just a name and a date. A marker, a quiet marker. And as I neared Graceland they grew thicker in the signs and posts and sidewalks along the way..

And when I reached the wall I saw them everywhere. Even on top of each other.

Walk that wall.

From one end to another it bears name after name, who they are, and when they came here. Dates and names. And with some there is often a personal message.


This isn't on the tour. It's not clean, carefully laid out behind tasteful ropes and shielded by Plexiglas. It's right out there, right on the road, where anyone can see it it, touch it, alter it.

People write on the bricks, the concrete, not so much as to be read, but simply for the act of doing it.



You stand in front of the wall, the ground still damp from the ever present rain, and look at the names, stretching out on either side of you until they can no longer be read. You stand in the center of a community, soulmates for the frozen moment. Even alone you are joined by the thousands who have written here before, and writers whose marks are yet to come.

Cars pass by heedless on the road behind you, as you feel the presence of these other pilgrims, these seeking souls who came to Graceland, and found.