SAD Again: The Dog, Spirits, and a Fly
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illustration by syd danger for issue 30: death
In reading Andi Icaza’s piece “The Dog, Spirits, and a Fly”, which blends elements of poetry and prose in a way that grounds the reader in the narrator’s reality, I was immediately struck by her representation of loss and the spiritual realm. While the month of October is known around the globe for the celebration of Halloween, a holiday that traces its origins to the Celtic festival of Samhain, Icaza’s writing and Nicaraguan roots evoke the celebration of Day of the Dead. Often held on the 2nd of November, “Día de Muertos” commemorates those who have embarked on the long journey to the afterlife, prompting the loved ones they leave behind to bring provisions of food and treasured relics to their resting place. The Indigenous peoples of Mesoamerica believed death to be a continuation of life, and in her narration of a father’s death that is closely tied to the speaker’s birthday, Icaza conjures this belief while observing the pain that such loss carries.
Andi Icaza-Largaespada graduated from Simon Fraser University with a BFA in Visual Arts in 2017, exhibiting her work at La Rizoma, Managua, the School of Contemporary Arts, Vancouver and the Contemporary Art Gallery in a solo exhibition following her reception of the CAG prize for emerging artist in 2017. Her work is often centered around ecological and Indigenous rights activism, with Icaza employing photography as a means to call out the unethical nature of the mining industry in Nicaragua. Her film and digital photography highlight a unique eye for natural landscapes, people and even objects, always picking up on the details that a less experienced photographer might easily miss.
While her writing in SAD’s Death Issue differs greatly from her work as a photographer, its commemoration of those who have passed holds particular weight in a season often known to blur the lines between the dead and the living. Whether that is in October’s renaissance of Samhain— marked by great gatherings where ancient burial mounds were open— or November’s Día de Muertos. Written in 2020, the allusions to the virus that shut down entire countries for months are likely to summon somber memories for many, yet Icaza does not dwell on the dark times for too long. While the dog in her piece incites a sense of uncertainty, upholding ancient beliefs of canines’ sharpened senses, the fly at the end encourages hope and perseverance when hopelessness prevails.
illustration by graeme mccormack for issue 30: death
The Dog, Spirits, and a Fly
By Andi Icaza
Illustrations by Graeme McCromack
The dog haphazardly shakes off his nap in the dining room just to resume laying on the floor in the living room, in front of me. Except now his ears are perked up, his head alert. He appears to look straight into my grandmother’s painted eyes. She looks at me from her regal seat and in her not-her-wedding-dress dress, pearls, and a fan in her hand. In oil she oversees us through decades
Ausente
presente
Mambo looks like he is looking up at a human. For a minute I wonder if on quiet Sundays, when I sit elsewhere besides my room, spirits of whom I’ve lost visit. Dogs see things we cannot. I ask what’s up
More hope than wonder
I glance at the candle alight by my father’s ashes. ¿Is it flickering more than is warranted by the overhead fan? I look back at the dog, ¿Qué pasa mi amor? ¿Qué ves?
¿Quien es?
It must actually be a fly. One that neither of us can see. Dogs also hear things we can’t. I know for a fact because I play at whispering Mambo’s name from afar, confidently assuming it’s mostly a choice and not a lack-of-hearing when he does not react. I do the same to my mom, hers a progressive lack-of
Ma-
má-mbo
She returns from her long shower with a tall glass of beer and soda and ice y calor. It’s already May, but it will not rain. It is pooling up above, much like sweat on my mom’s nariz-de-enchufe-shaped nose, but it will not yet rain. She warns to cover everything, plates of food and fruits, dog bowls and mugs, cutlery and cups, placing an embroidered napkin on her own
The flies are starting to come
They are probably carrying el virus from the streets. Some of the most pessimistic theorists hypothesize this, plus, next week is supposed to be semana cero when the pandemic really shows itself. When no amount of denial can fatten a thumb enough to cover up the numbers
Corruption is a matter of time
I was not planning on celebrating my birthday, anyway, anyway they say birth is intimately tied to death. They sit together. When I thought I understood what they meant, I couldn’t predict how unnecessarily tied in time my birth-day and his death-day would be. In a week’s time, I’ll no longer be twenty-five, and in two, dad will be one-year-dead. Cuestión de tiempo.
Anyway
The dog eventually climbs on the white-now-dusty-brown couch next to the chest that holds my dad’s ashes. The chest stands across from the room from my maybe-2-D grandmother. That version of her apparently never actually existed, the sumptuous portrait an interchangeable template many pounds lighter than she had been then. All the burgeoning bourgeois housewives in town then now exist in the same chair, dress, and hair with respectively different skin tone, face, and head. The painter funded his fine arts school this way
De polvo somos
Mambo rubs more hair and dust into the fabric. I have started referring to him as my geriatric dog. His jaw increasingly trembles when closing his mouth, his balance starting to go. It’s not just that he’s softly leaning most of his weight on you for pets anymore. Empalagoso, y envejeciendo. I rallied to let him have the couch. For his bones. Dogs get arthritis with age, too. Only two different sets of cousins, once a year each, on average, sit on it otherwise. With the virus, who knows about this year
anyway
The dog is here now
He reminds both mom and I of dad. Their beards started grey around the same time, among other perceived similarities
Anhelo
We’re both scared to death that something will ever happen to the dog
Exhalo
Mambo keeps rubbing himself against the couch, playful. We observe. After he has our attention, he’ll climb off and lay down, this time to eat. Zeta, our other dog who doesn’t resemble my dad, will eat too, and then they will play-fight. Him a gentle shepherd-mantequilla, her a feisty mini-cochina. Zeta is also getting old
A matter of time
The fly in question shows itself to me eventually. A fly
hope
wonder
Andi Icaza-Largaespada graduated from Simon Fraser University in 2017 with a BFA in Visual Arts. She has exhibited at La Rizoma, Managua and School of Contemporary Arts, Vancouver, as well as the Contemporary Art Gallery after receiving the CAG prize for emerging artist. Her work as a photographer is expansive, though her professional focus is feminist, ecological and Indigenous rights activism. You can find her personal portfolio at andicaza.com and follow her for more digital and film photography at Instagram @analogandi .
