Frida Kahlo shoot

Frida: Blanca

2015

Feeling lethargic, hard to shake off.

sketch

Taken within literally minutes of each other.

Fucking Chicago.

Going to start over.

Looking to post more original content.

Please be advised.

Version 2

葬式 Soshiki

February 20th, 1997 was a particularly normal spring day. The sun was not hiding behind any clouds, and the wind was gentle. I remember the hedges outside being green, but had not yet sprouted any flowers. I wore a black and white lace dress with a matching ribbon in the back, and in my hair. Shoes, newly purchased, were already worn from the dirt path I was walking on. Everyone else, my baby brother, my mother, my grandparents, my relatives, the strangers, also wore black: black suits, black dresses, black kimono. A herd of black.

The herd entered a plain, spacious building, following behind men carrying a large white box. Wanting to get closer, I tugged at my grandmother’s, my obaa-san’s hand. My mother, with my brother in her arms and a stony face, kept quietly in pace in front of the group. Other than the shuffling of our feet, there was no sound. No one dared to speak, like they were afraid breaking the silence would cause something to go wrong. The box to fall, perhaps.

We stopped in front of a square steel door and a ceramic table, where the men hoisted the box on to. Then, one by one, the strangers went up to the box and touched it, mumbled to it, placed a white chrysanthemum on it, then turned away with their heads low and their eyes to the ground. When it was my mother’s turn, she handed my baby brother to my grandfather ojii-san and slowly approached it. I watched as she stood there for what seemed like eternity, with her hand placed on the box. Her shoulders suddenly started shaking, and a weak sob escaped her lips. I wanted to run to her, to touch her and comfort her, but the hushed silence kept me chained to my spot. My obaa-san looked down at me and shook her head, like she knew what I was thinking. I looked around to see if anyone else was going to help my mother, but everyone just stood there, heads still low and eyes unlooking. I told myself to wait until papa showed up.

She finally turned from the white box and took back my brother from ojii-san. With wet eyes, she looked at me and smiled. Puzzled, I smiled back. The smile was strange, because it did not reach her eyes like how it usually did.

The quiet was finally broken by a worker wearing a black suit and white gloves. “It will be completed in two hours. Until then, please wait outside in the lobby, or have lunch outside by the benches. Thank you.” Another worker opened the metal door, slid the box in, and quickly shut it.

  Outside, my obaa-san took out obento to eat, one for ojii-san, one for mother and little brother, one for herself, and a small, kids-sized one for me. They ate slowly without saying anything but a few words to each other, lifting the small wooden hashi, chopsticks, to their mouths and chewing carefully. I had finished eating an onigiri before letting my attention wander off to the shrubs and soil. Picking up a stick, I started prodding the dirt while distancing myself from the bench. Obaa-san warned not to walk off too far. The strangers started coming up to our area and speaking to my family, some bringing soft smiles, and some bringing tears. I continued to dig up the dirt and ignore the strangers. Roly polys crawled out of the earth, uncurling and waking up from their interrupted slumber. A few of the bugs refused to uncurl no matter how much I poked, and I put them back in the soil to rebury them. I wondered when my papa was going to come.

Suddenly, a ghostly female voice came on the speaker system. “To the Shibata family and friends, it is ready. Please come back in and resume the ceremony.”

  The first thing I noticed about the room was the smell: overwhelmingly burnt, like after obaa-san would set fire to the weeds in her garden before starting to plant for the spring. On the ceramic table, where the white box once laid, were objects covered with a white sheet. Ojii-san was the first to approach the table. He went to the front end and grabbed the sheet. Waiting until obaa-san joined him on the other side, with the other end of the sheet in her hand, pulled it back gently. I could not see what was on the table; it was too tall. Even as I stood on the tips of my toes, I could not.

The worker with the white gloves handed a simple, off-white urn to my mother, who set it on the table by the objects. My brother, who had suddenly started crying, was being carried by my mother’s sister. We all watched to the side as everyone else surrounded the table and picked up long, thick ivory hashi. They bowed, putting their hands together and closing their eyes.

Each person took turns picking up a piece on the table and placing it into the urn. The pieces were white and covered in dust. Are they picking up broken porcelain? I wondered. Did someone break something? They passed down the objects down the table with hashi. Some pieces were too large to pick up by one person, and two pairs of chopsticks passed down the fragment into the urn. That was wrong; my mother once yelled at me for passing food to her with chopsticks. “I can’t grab it. Put them on my bowl.” But instead of telling them of their bad etiquette, I kept watching.

I wanted to do it too, to pick up the pieces and put them in an urn, to keep and rattle and play.