day of the dead

feeling inspired, awed, reverent.

tried my best to capture the energy of the night.

heartbreakingly sweet, a shrine for babies.

spinning baby toys hanging from the tree. here, a sippy cup a-twirl.

crossing paths with a skeleton.

scribing messages for the loved and lost.

still life, with pomegranate.

ghost on a cell phone.

color and light.

the webs we weave.

a little red ridinghood addendum, etc.

my favorite holiday, this masquerade & leaves. but there's a brief but unmistakable longing for my birthplace, new york, during autumn and especially on halloween. that chimney-smokey swirling wind and the blanketing of darkness, the narrowing days. sure it has its measure of dread (winter, cold, barren forests), but there's a beauty. duende. when i developed the syncope disorder 2 1/2 years ago i realized something about this time of year: it's like a fainting spell in slow motion. darkness closing in.

it's also my birth-season. and yet another year turns over. have to get used to this new number. not thrilled. oh, there's that sentiment i heard on NPR earlier this month (yes i actually paid attention this time despite the madcap driving to sell work at the indie fair)-- that it's strange we celebrate our birthdays, when really we should be mourning the loss of our passing life. each birthday means we're that much closer to death. dismal, but dry and i must admit i loved it. him. who was he? look that up.

in the half-light of that recent (rather school-paper-ish) entry, i have been thinking today about that doll i had. an ugly little red riding hood doll, all knit, but though a soft doll it had a hardness to it, stuffed with something malleable but stiff. especially the face. definitely hand-made. pull Little Red's skirt over her head, and--gasp--- she was her grandmother. red replaced with navy blue and grey. old-lady hair the color of wire. it was eerie, that old woman being inside the girl. a sick twist on the actual tale. then, to top off the psychological insanity, if you pulled up the little puffy cap on the grandmother's head, there was a badly-formed wolf. were it not for the story, there's no way anyone would identify it as a wolf, but there is was. a deadish brownish lump with teeth atop her head. further evidence (as if i needed any, even as a kid) that i'd never want to wear fur.


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a question re. little red riding hood

i was asked for some thoughts on dressing up as little red riding hood for halloween. perhaps because i am somewhat obsessed with children's literature and its subversions? i must admit, i do collect sources (a favorite book along with other alison lurie works). anyway, in my answer i explained my version of the costume from 2 years ago on all hallows. i wore the classic fare (red cape, plaid skirt, vintage kid's lacy shirt, knee socks) but with messy hair and subtle lines of blood coming down my leg. (it's likely many people actually thought it was my period, while others were aghast at the dark implication, but hey that was the risk i took). my boyfriend played the wolf, a man on the brink of night who was only just part-way to fully becoming the embodiment of something dangerous, yet still capable of such dangerous things. you might say he was suffering from his own socialization within the context of a violent society. he was covered in a bit of blood too, signs of battle because my preference is the depiction of little red as nothing like a passive victim. i always pictured her this way, even as a small child-- she fought her way to survival.

about the disturbing rape implication of the costume-- it was a choice that sprang from my understanding of the story's subtext: violation. the disturbing part of the costume was not the fake blood but the truth it referenced, and that truth wouldn't mean anything in a culture without rape. the story of little red ridinghood itself, too, whispers to us a side tale of childhood abuse, elder abuse, as well. these realities go back way before the story originated, and yet are still barely acknowledged (to the extent they should be) today. (by the way, i made sure i only went to adult parties so there were no children present. it's not exactly a night in which a child typically has an adult to supplement their undeveloped facilities to process such art. not that kids don't have much wisdom and instinct to understand the world, but i don't want to traumatize them. they get enough from the ghoulishness and gore that night already.)



but the adults! there was my own catharsis. and their transparent reactions, a palpable moment of internal wheels moving. depending on the person, it ranged from a quick looking away for some to questions and curiosity from others. short momentary responses of nervous laughter, kneejerk disgust, tacit glances (these meant the most to me), a strange delight, the camaraderie of audaciousness, or silence.


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