The Dancer

Posted on February 16, 2006 in Myths & Mysticism Photos Reflections

Mention that you collect calacas or skeletons from the Mexican Day of the Dead and your conversation partner’s rate of speech will go from 60 to zero in an instant. I don’t collect those gruesome suitable-as-fixtures-for-the-bar-of-a-black-leather-coat-clad-biker’s-bar figurines or skulls perspiring with simulated blood, mud, and mold. Celebrations of abrupt and poisoned ends do not attract me. I’m in it for the laugh and I’m in it for the reminder that we’re all skeletons underneath.

Skeletons mean life — life that was and life that is. Right now, a skeleton dances inside of you, pulled by sinews. Without it, you’d have the suppleness of a sea-cucumber and be forced to ooze across the floor by means of temporary ridges or sucker feet. We’d live for mud or wet sand. Our hard bones clad in allow us to go anywhere — be it sand, mud, dirt, rock, or water. A marvellous bubble of calcium encloses and protects our brain. Is it any wonder that the sight of our hidden sharp edges should make people think of gods or that the comic side-eyedness of our skinned face should cause us to think of clowns?

Do not be afraid of this light that comes out of the red darkness. It signifies the backbone of existence, the equality of all who are human.

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