Sunday, November 2, 2008

Día de los Muertos in Cheesman Park.

Cheesman Park, a onetime cemetery, still bears the visible imprints of rows of graves.

From my novel A Western Capitol Hill:

Garrett’s mind takes leave of his body, hovering over Cheesman Park. The park’s green, grassy plots crumble open, extruding the dead from underneath the ground. They begin to dance. Some skeletons hold picnics. Some sunbathe in the nude. Some ride in carriages being pulled by the skeletons of horses. Some shoot the skeletons of birds from the sky. Some tend dead roses. It looks like a collection of Día de los Muertos engravings by Posada come to life.



(Jose Guadalupe Posada, "Gran fandango y francachela de todas las calaveras" - 1913)

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