Una Bella Muerte: A Review of Pedestrian Sunday for October 25, 2009

I wouldn’t classify myself as the macabre sort (not at this stage of my life anyway), but I have a current obsession with El Dia De Los Muertos, or the Day of the Dead. This traditional holiday, steeped deeply in the Catholic and Indigenous roots of Central and South America, is celebrated around the cusp of Halloween, typically coinciding with All Souls Day of November 1st and 2nd. Families prepare highly ornate miniature altars in their homes to remember and welcome the spirits of those who have died, and prepare favourite foods and ofrendas (small toys for children, shots of liquor for adults) in anticipation for their arrival. In Mexico, the festival is symbolized most recognizably by La Calavera, or the skeleton, which shows up everywhere from the food (sugar and chocolate skulls), to collectable, decorative figures of skeletal noble women known as “La Catrinas” . The celebration is meant to be light and festive, with people gathering at cemetaries to tell funny or endearing tales of their deceased loved ones, and adorning their graves with marigolds, jewlery and candles.

I love this holiday for so many reasons. First, there is the mixture of the sacred and the profane – beautiful painted skulls mixed with in with symbols of the Virgin and Sacred Heart (you can decide which is sacred and which is perverse). Secondly, it’s a striking and gorgeous contrast to the soul-sucking, black-stocking, sterile and hopelessly sombre approach to death that I have experienced in my lifetime. We WASPS can and do many a celebration right (Christmas? New Years? Birthdays?) Why can’t death be beautiful, ornate, lavish or even ridiculous? Why must we shy away from this universal experience, and deny the beauty and celebration of a soul passing back to the beyond, that incomprehensible “otherside”? To me, it seems like a much healthier and saner approach to death than having to mill around a small church basement, eating finger sandwiches and signing condolence books.

The experience of death came to me much later in life, but it came in a steady stretch. Since the death of my granddad when I was 21, I have lost 5 family members and 1 family friend. They died of cancer, from old age, by accident – mostly recently, some were murdered. On the flipside, since I was 21, I’ve witness a constant death within myself of identity, of feelings, beliefs and values. Ideals passed away, self-proclamations croaked, lovers and friends closed the caskets on relationships. It has been a constant reminder to me of all the cliche’s about impermanence - nothing stays the same, nothing lasts forever, and there is no assurity in life but change and death,change and death, over and over again.

Despite all this, I think the process of death – both internal and external – is an intensely beautiful one, and so I knew that I couldn’t miss out on the last Pedestrian Sunday in Kensington Market. It’s nearly Halloween, and this ghoulish Sunday took on a celebratory theme of death and honouring of ancestors, of loved ones passed and gone – at least on this plane of existence.

At around 1pm, I jogged out of my house to face Bellevue Park glimmering in the sunshine and colourfully ablaze in fall foliage. Finding few people on the street, I picked up my obligatory Moonbean flavoured coffee ( and oh, how I love that they remember I like skim milk!), and headed down to the only place I know that offers Day of the Dead items for sale – Courage My Love. Yes, that mecca of neo-gypsy boho swag has a wonderful display of clay-and-wood calacas, imported from somewhere in Mexico. They’re all overpriced, as Courage tends to be, but I just can’t help myself when my eyes lay upon a small statue of a kneeling skeleton female confessing her sins to a smiling, cadaverous priest. I pluck it from the display and examine the detailed faces and clothes. It reminds me of the times I went to confession as a child; this pitiful, frail, faltered little girl blurting out that she had stolen change off her father’s dresser to an infallible man of the cloth. The fact that both the woman and the priest in the statue are skeletal seems symbolic to me of the basic human nature shared between all people – especially priests, who often hide the biggest skeletons of all. At $12, this three-inch statue is no bargain, but fuck it – it’s Day of the Dead! I make my purchase and head back out.

Going back up north on Augusta, the crowds are slowly swelling. I stop at 43 Kensington St., where a handmade sign tells me that if I seek a bargain, look no further - a few people are having a super-cheap garage sale, is divesting themselves of a table full of crap. Nothing strikes my fancy until my eyes meet the empty sockets of a clay-made skull, with an inverted pentacle carved into it. Wicked! The woman manning the spread tells me this a creation of The Great Orbax, the ringleader of a traveling circus freakshow and owner of Fiendish Curiosities. I pick up the skull, appreciating it’s heavy weight in my hands.

“How much?”

“Ten bucks..”

“Deal.”

My deathly purchasing done, I start to walk back up towards St-Andrew, where I spot Jesse sitting infront of Moonbean, listening to his friend Tanya host a set of spoken word. Plopping down on the bench beside him, I arrive just in time for the star performer of this particular installation – Andrea Thompson, a captivating, soulful slam poet in fierce shades and kickass boots. She throttles the mike with her words, rhythmically recounting stories that are compellingly real to me, humourous and lovely. I relate to her words about religion (she digs them all), and the appeal of the feminine divine (“there’s something about Mary…”). She gives a shout-out to the great goddesses, in heaven and on earth, and extolls wisdom on an unassuming, pig-tailed little girl who is wielding a fairy wand and messing with the sound equipement. Then Tanya comes up, and in the barest words, screams “COURAGE!!!” in her verses, and speaks of loving, living, and healing. At first, there’s really only Jesse and I, and a few patrons of Moonbean who are watching, but then a small crowd gathers. Tanya offers the mike up to others who have the guts to get up and spew slam, and a few do – a gentleman named Geronimo, who carries the torch of unapologetic self-love; Sam, who announces that we need a revolution, “but not industrial”; Evalisa, who comes complete with an interpretive dancer, and recounts her experiences in living in India. I would have listened to her more closely, but I became entranced with the impossibly intricate tattoo that I can sort of make out on her back.

The slam poetry starts to wrap up around 3pm. I gaze absent-mindedly at the crowds, watching a few people pass through with pumpkins tucked beneath their arms: then I get a text message from Julia asking me where I am. I run home to drop off my skulls, then meet up with her outside of the southern branch of Exile. We stand on the porch of the store, which is brimming with vintage costumes, as Julia introduces me to her new roommates who are just becoming acquainted with Kensington and Halloween – Mez, from Australia, and Sarah from Belgium. Sarah shows me her blonde bob wig and tells me that for her first Halloween, she’s going to be Bonnie Parker. “I want to do it right,” she says to me. I smile and make small talk, until Julia and Mez announce that they’re hungry, and Mez wants something along the lines of a baked potato. I suggest the royal treat of Kensington – a yam burrito from Big Fat – and lead the way. I wasn’t quite feeling the burrito for lunch, so I excused myself to go for an empanadas instead, and wait for Jules to join me later after Mez and Sarah have gone.

A few minutes later, Jules, Jesse and I are sitting on the curb in front of St-Stephen’s, watching a performance of the Great Lakes ensemble of The Otesha Project. The traveling troupe tells the story of Billie, a teenager who is charged with the task of writing an essay on what she is going to do in her life. She falls asleep at her desk and auspiciously dreams of a polluted and consumer-driven world, where sale slogans reach out like zombies through the TV screen, cows suggest eating beans over meat and water costs $30 a glass. Her Fairy-Choice Mother (Evalisa, from the slam poetry) informs her that there are ethical and environmental alternatives to the mass-produced industrial market, and in a Scrooge-like reformation, Billie learns the true meaning of her life and voices change to all those around her. At the end, each member of the ensemble makes an earnest suggestion on how to reduce your environmental footprint – I like them all, except for maybe the suggestion to use a Diva Cup (I’m sorry, but when I’m on my rag, the last thing I want is to fish around up there for a wee plastic bucket of blood. No thanks.). It was the Great Lakes’ Otesha Project’s last performance – they’d been cycling southern Ontario, performing the show (called “A Reason To Dream”) in schools since the start of September – and you could tell it was an emotional and bittersweet ending to their run. I just hoped they got their message out to th ‘burbs, where “enviromental sustainability” remains something of a foreign concept….

Julia peaced out, and I wanted to pick up some groceries before the parade at 6pm, and so I started to make my way back home, but stopped first for some “free advice” from two people at the corner of Oxford and Augusta. I’m not sure what made Charlie, in the Garth Algar wig, and Denise, in a graduation cap, particularly qualified to be giving advice, but it was free and they looked like nice people, so I went for it. In the spirit of the day, I ask them “what do you think is the best way to deal with death?”. That’s a toughie, says Charlie, but he also agrees that El Dia De Los Muertos is a great example of how people can celebrate the end of someone’s life, instead of bemoan it.”It’s a whole different attitude towards death”, he explains, “very matter of fact.”. Denise concurs and I thank them for their time.

Not two minutes after I get in the door with my groceries, my friend Peatrishe gives me a call. She’s in the market with her friend Tratham and wants me to come meet them at El Trompo. Over nachos and soft tacos, she tells me how she tried to end it with a suitor who is rather scary-obsessed with her and much too attached for someone she’s only dated for a few weeks. It triggers my protective side and brings back bad memories from my own experiences – I tell her she made the smart choice. It’s now 6pm, and I know the parade is starting at Kensington and Dundas. I excuse myself, promise to meet up with Peatrishe later, and scurry down to the where the parade is starting. Nighttime is coming, and grey-black clouds overshadow the streets. I get down just in time to see the start of Samba Elegua slam their instruments to harken the start of the Halloween March.

The parade, led by dancing locals, zombies, hula hoop performers, a quintete of skeleton-costumed trumpeters and with Samba Elegua bringing up the back, travels north on Kensington St., then west on Baldwin. At the corner of Baldwin and Augusta, the parade stops and bows, revealing a top-hatted master of ceremonies – Shamez, the owner of La Palette, rises from the crush of people to greet celebrants and passerbys. He points to the crescent moon sky in the south, and the black curtain that blocks the north end of Augusta and asks if we are ready to pass over to the other side. This is what I’ve been waiting for all day, and I grip my notebook close to me in anticipation. The crowd roars, Samba clamours their drums and bells, and the curtains dissipate – we are greeted by firespinners on the other end of the curtain. One of them lights a huge fireball into the sky and the scene explodes into marching and dancing, swelling into one giant street party.

The parade continues to slowly inch its way north on Augusta, but it’s hard to move with so many people dancing up a storm. At one point, I lose my journalistic ambitions and starting hopping around with the crowd to the beat of samba and woeful trumpet horns, throwing my hands up in the air and letting my hair sway back and forth like a flag. I feel embraced in the crowd, my neighbours shaking and twirling around me, feet stomping, hands clapping. We dance and holler and make enough noise to raise the dead.

I’m shoved and pushed back and forth through the crowd, and eventually the jostle feels less like a tribal boogie and more like a mosh pit. I carve my way out of the onslaught of bodies, and head for the higher ground of the wheelchair ramp infront of St-Stephen’s Community House. From this perch, I get the perfect view of the scene – people jumping, jiving and writhing in an orbit around Samba Elegua and the trumpet group, who are jamming together in perfect harmony. Peatrishe and Thratham rejoin me on the ramp and we watch the rest of the show. Peatrishe teases me for being such a Samba groupie. I don’t really mind. At the end of it all, someone lights a few small tealights on the street to close the evening – maybe as a final small prayer to the spirits who watched us dance. That’s it – Pedestrian Sundays of 2009 have passed, done for another year.

Having dinner with some girlfriends at K-OS, I’m informed that they both have experienced ends to their prospective romantic interests. We console ourselves with nachos and beer and say that in the end, there’s always plenty of fish in the sea and girlfriends to talk with. It ‘s that time of year again, this beautiful, heart-breaking season of death – a time for things to die, to go away, to end, to hibernate. No more Here Comes The Sun or Summer Breeze. No more shorts and flip-flops. No more P.S.K. .Winter is upon us, cold and dark like a grave – but everything follows in a cycle; change is as constant as death. Rebirth will come in 2010, when there is a new spring, new friendships, new loves, new lives, new poems to be slammed, new songs to be played, new performances to be dramatized, and best of all, new experiences to be had.

Death and change, over and over again. Always so beautiful, honest and bittersweet in their existence,the only two factors I know are solid guarantees in life.

I believe we gave Pedestrian Sundays 2009 a good wake this last Sunday. Can’t wait to see it again next year…