As part of May as Mental Health Month Sunflower Skins presents some notes from personal experience. Monday’s fragment focuses on social anxiety and personal needs, both from yourself–TLC–and from others; Wednesday’s poem will address eating disorders; and finally on Friday I have a list of some things that I’ve learned about Mental Health and wish to share.
Like my experiments this past summer, the latest assignment from my writing group required the following: title, first line, last line. Two hours to write. No changes.
Five Minutes Before the Miracle
Saturday afternoon she drove to the bakery in the shopping centre. Forward. Drive. He was napping. Perfect opportunity. Now, at least, or she would never again have the nerve.
Dreaming. Sleep. Pleasantries.
Saturday afternoon she drove to the bakery in the shopping centre and selected the most delectable dessert for her most disagreeable husband. Strawberry shortcake. A perfectly round, perfectly tiny cake, a perfect opportunity to inject a surprise from within. Your gut.
Dreaming. Sleep. Gorging pleasantries.
Saturday afternoon—the last day of their marriage, only she knew for certain that this had to be the end—she drove to the bakery in the shopping centre and dodged all the other housewives. She, the only one desperate enough for a cure. They barely noticed her against the grain.
Her dreams. Sleep. Maybe she could finally rest.
Forward, face forward, face the wheel. She sat in her car, the bakery box in her lap. Thin off-white cardboard. A caricature etched on the lid. A mockery of her life.
A single tear falls.
Dreams. Come back.
She sat in her car, retracing the motions. Imagining. Dreaming. Of how sweet life could be.
She removed the syringe from her purse, uncapped it, and injected the serum into the soft sponge. A few crumbs fell onto her slacks. Truth serum. Reveal your secrets.
It would be a miracle if she could pull this off. And even if she didn’t in the end, it would still be a change. Rethink all your concepts. Rethink. Everything.
Saturday afternoon is the least likely day for a ghastly crime. Pleasantries.
She rubbed her sore neck and looked in the rear-view mirror. Hollow eyes return. Bring back life. Bring me back my own life.
The shortcake looked exactly the same. So did she. No bruises shew; no love grew. But there was a change. She drove home.
Saturday afternoon she drove home to poison her husband.
Dreaming. Sleep. Lazyboy.
You are so fucking lazy.
She parked in the garage and sat there, weighing her options. The life ahead seemed so heavy. She did not want to be dragged around anymore. She left the car and entered the house.
Dreaming. Sleep. Would you trade one nightmare for another?
She waited patiently until he awoke. Didn’t want to ruin the dream. Would he realize? He returned her gaze, but his, too—hollow.
“Today I drove to the shopping centre and bought you a dessert.”
Suspicious? Not a chance.
Forward. Drive. Five more minutes and it will all be over.
“I thought you could use a treat.”
“Well, ain’t you sweet.”
I know.
“There is something inside,” she said.
“Yeah, I think you got us these once,” he said, blubbering. He cannot remember. We had these at our wedding. Expectations?
Why can’t you remember something sweet and good?
“There’s cream’r something, right?”
“Yes,” she said, watching him lick icing off a finger. Inside. Nevermore. “There is something else inside.”
“O yeah?” He paused, mouth open, cake dangling over gaping jaws. Teeth. Wound. “What’s that?”
“A little extra something I injected.” Truth serum.
He returned her gaze, but his, too—hollow. “And what’s that?” Ask and I shall tell thee.
“Love.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said, swallowing the entire cake in one greedy mouthful, “I think you’re just trying to make up for last night.” Nasty fuck. “But I’ll get you, y’know. I’ll get you.” A slight sting in the aftertaste, a bitter undertone. She really wanted to reassure him, to convince him that there was a centre he’d never considered. The unseen heart.
“It’s really something,” she said, so passionately.
“It’s… really… something…” he said.
For another Boring Writing Exercise see Bulbasaur Eyes.
Crosswalking
Step outside. Evening. Chilly. Zip my coat up some more and walk down the path behind my building. So hungry. Wind blows my hair around, a wild mess. Footsteps on pavement, mine. The shwarma place isn’t too far but I might not make it. Dying of hunger. I walk along and become a famished zombie. Pass by frat houses and parties with giggling girls. Stupid. Much rather’d spend the night listening to records and getting drunk with just my boyfriend. The two of us, alone together. This’s the first time I’m heading out to get our dinner on my own, he usually comes with me. What a sickie, lying on the couch with the Xbox on. Press A and don’t pull the right trigger—X X X!—Don’t miss the mushroom! Watch out! I’m a zombie in Marioland. The Mushroom Kingdom. Crosswalk. Wait for the light to change. Little man lights up. On the main road now, busier, cars rush past. Gotta get home to your wife! Text and drive and talk and talk. Inattentive drivers. I’d rather walk, thanks. Stomp past the bus stop—mangy mutts turn to look at me. Dirties. Wind still blowing but I’m warmed up. Put my hands in my pockets. Stomach rumbles. See a group of Western girls up ahead. I am a zombie, they cannot touch me. I open my mouth and drool, stalking on shaky legs toward them. They stop chattering as they approach me. They are disgusted by the sight of me. Smile to myself. Gotta amuse yourself somehow. Through the tunnel, train tracks overhead. Will I make it through alive? I can see the light at the end! Phew, I did it. Some guy looks at me funny. Pass the tanning salon and the Asian restaurant. I can almost see the shwarma house. So hungry. My zombie stomach is grumbling. Pass Starbucks. Yuppies inside. Not on my life. People at the bus stop, crowded. I push through them, come to the corner. Stop, wait for the light to change. A woman is standing there with her daughter. Little girl won’t stop talking. Man, children bug the hell outta me. The cars begin running parallel to me, but the little man does not light up. The bright orange hand still says stop. Broken. Oh well, cross anyway. The woman grabs her daughter’s hand and begins to cross too.
The little girl says, “Mommy, there isn’t a cross sign. We can’t go!” She’s getting worked up, pulling back on her mother’s hand. “No! We can’t walk! The light’s not green! No, mommy!”
The woman says, “Hush, Amy.”
I walk faster and pass them, but I can still hear the little girl squealing.
* * * * *
Leave the sitter’s, going home with Mommy. Only a few blocks from our house. I know where that is. We walk down the busy street. Mommy holds my hand. I tell her what I did today.
“Cindy and I made placemats outta leaves. And Johnny liked mine better’n asked if we could trade, but I said no ’cause I made it for YOU!”
“That’s very nice of you to make it for me, but I hope you weren’t rude about trading with Jonathan.”
“I wasn’t rude.” Why would she think that? Wonder if he said something when I wasn’t looking. I’m glad he only comes to Cindy’s on Mondays. I tell mommy about how we collected leaves from the backyard.
“Red’n orange ones, really pretty,” I say.
“I bet. Listen, what do you want for dinner tonight?”
I dunno. I think for a minute. Then: “Psghetti!” Mommy agrees. Yum.
We get to the corner and wait for the light to change. Home is just across the street and then turn at the next left. Number 12. The cars change direction, but the hand is still up. Then Mommy steps forward into the street, even though the little white man isn’t walking!
I say, “Mommy, there isn’t a cross sign. We can’t go!” What is she doing? Doesn’t she realize we could get hit?
Mommy keeps walking, pulling me along into traffic. I yank back on her hand. “No! We can’t walk! The light’s not green! No, mommy!”
Mommy says, “Hush, Amy.”
Omygod, we’re going to die. We’re going to get hit by a car. The hand still says no. We’re gonna die!
“Mommy…”
“Knock it off, Amy.”
My heart is pounding. Thump thump thump! I imagine cars screeching. Crash! Mommy holds my hand even tighter, but she doesn’t have to drag me now. I want to get to the other side as fast as we can. Hurry! I don’t wanna get hit! A girl passes us and makes it across before us. She is ok. She keeps walking, doesn’t look back. We’re almost there… safe! I let out my breath, panting. Phew.
* * * * *
The restaurant is empty except for the manager. Early twenties. Shirt collar open to reveal a hairy, bronzed chest. I awkwardly order. One chicken shwarma, one lamb. Everything smells so good. Chicken on the spit looks really fresh. The manager smiles at me while making my sandwich. I am a zombie. This guy cannot touch me. Pay, leave. Gotta get home to Thom! I get to the corner. Cars rush past. The light doesn’t change for me. I start walking. I am not dying. I will be home in a few minutes.
Inspired by Alan Moore, Stephen Bissette, and John Totleben’s “The Saga of the Swamp Thing,” Sunflower Skins presents its first comic book! Printed in full colour and featuring stories by Britani Sadovski, cover art by Katie Vanderhaeghe of Sweater Eyes Photography, and inside artwork by Britani and Thom Roland. Email to inquire price and to place orders. Special thanks to Larry Garber.
Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
TIPPING
She tipped over, like a glass at a party—see the drink splash—watch it fall—shatter. Like a curl in the air, her breath extinguishing the candles, she tipped the glass, and the remains of the wine dripped over her toes.
She looked down at the kitchen floor and sighed. It hadn’t appeared that he was coming home anyway, so she needn’t worry about the mess. Yet something lingered—a feeling of moisture on her skin, a cool sweetness on her lips—the result of her picnic lay broken on the floor, unnoticed by anyone except herself.
Summer was slipping away, like an ice cube dissolving in your hand, and she had tried to contain a small part of it, tried to represent it, or re-envision it, in—in, what? A backyard picnic as one last hurrah? A quiet evening under the stars, hoping the heat isn’t too much to bear—did she really think he was going to drink up the notion that this would work itself out? Even she knew that night had dawn and that dawn didn’t always bring light or relief. It would be impossible to recreate in one night their seven years of loyalty and love; it had slowly crumbled and this summer had seen the last of it. Now that summer was going, so was he.
She slid down to the floor, tucking up her knees and kicking off her heels. Liquid on the linoleum, swirling colours. She tipped her head down and thought, “It’s going to be alright, it’s going to be ok.”
As the colours run, the still waters of your heart break open.
Photography by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
I have always felt uncomfortable on my birthday. The centre of attention, the choices to make. And now, as I become an adult, I’m not sure if I even want to celebrate at all, for memories and emotion still distort my vision. Unnerving. If I close my eyes on August 25th, my friends say they will see for me. Watchmen of a sort.
Birthdays are dangerous business.
Good thing you have an army beside you.
Photography by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
And if childhood has passed—which it has—then control yourself and take only what you need from it. Release the old haunts and free yourself.
Photography by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
I see:
A frenzy. We’re walking through the night, the air heavy all around us. I hear sounds everywhere, my senses heightened. Cicadas, quiet—and then voices, tires squealing, a door slamming—my own breath. These walks around the corner, from our house to the convenience store, are always an adventure; we come armed with our guts and each other, nervous to be outside but ready to strike—everyone else is a potential enemy, though we try to keep peaceful as we prowl through the dark… for munchies!
Photography by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
She suddenly lets out this great peal of laughter and says, sputtering, “I can hear the entire world!”
You want to see the world? I will show you.
Photography by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
We arm ourselves elsewhere: when we go to the mall or to school, or when we have to get groceries, but mostly, when we’re going out for The Show.
Definition: an event both physical and mental, possibly occurring continuously, wherein the individual exists in the outside world but is expressly aware of his own mind, deeply entrenched in the vision he has for a different world. The individual thrives on, not just desire, but application and experience of the new vision.
Sometimes we do this with substances. Sometimes we are wide-awake in our own minds. But it has become possible to share the vision with a few others, and so it is not so terrifying.
We go out for The Show when we wake up and decide to draw robots all afternoon. We are there when we wear our Neon Maniacs get-ups to the movies or when we equip ourselves with homemade weapons to meet the post-apocalyptic deadland—when we throw a dozen colourful balloons at a ceiling fan and squeal with pure delight. We are at The Show when we run out for five minutes, smoke still hazy in our eyes.
Photography by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
You want to see the world? I will show you if you are willing to see it.
Photography by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
The Haus of Gaga suggests that everything is a performance piece, that art incorporates all strains and elements—and as we walk by a random street pylon, she turns to me and whispers, “There is possibility. Don’t leave it on the sidewalk.”
Isn’t the joke we share enough art to sustain my heart? This world I am in, our own world, our own Show; a frenzy of giggles, my voice echoing within the orange plastic cone, flashes from the camera—grabbing the candy and retracing our steps Home.
The Show goes on.
Photography by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
On this, your 21st birthday, the eve of whatever anniversary you wish to celebrate—that 21yearsagoonthisdayblahblahblah or nowyou’relegallyanadultwhereveryougogogogo—or just knowing that today has its moments and you’re still alive in every single one of them; you’ve survived birthdays past, as I have survived my own (family to-dos and nervous breakdowns). On this, your 21st year, look forward instead of back and recreate whatever love you wish to celebrate: new family—new blood—names and numbers changed as you change—
in every moment, Jerry, I see you dancing—or swimming through the air—or running as fast as you can towards it—embrace the fire inside you. Explode. A million bits of beauty, light forming on your lashes.
Photography by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
THE LEECH MAN
He hunched across my vision, leering his disfigured, distorted body and turning the sky uncanny. Already it had become a sickening shade of orange, a Creamsicle in the freezer too long, gone gooey and gross, and I stood on the sidewalk gaping at the sight in the heavens above me. This being of supreme and magnificent evil. His humpback I recognized like the monster who lived under my bed when I was a child; his nose reaching like tentacles, squiggly squid lips feeling for any life-form or bacteria/eggs to suck up and destroy.
Destroy me with his proboscis. Exterminate the leech babies.
The day had been weird all along, sky half-awake and shadows passing like everything was gonna fall down at any second—everything just come down and the world end. Sometimes I get these feelings. And when I went outside at about 4:30, I tripped on the porch stoop like I used to when I was really little, before our house became familiar. Tripping—familiar—used to the gap. Looked up from the sidewalk—askew—tilted—I felt nauseated, my stomach bloated.
They sometimes said bizarre things about me, things I couldn’t understand. Gossipy groups discussing what will come after. I think I get what it means now, but I don’t like to talk about it. I just pat my belly and hope everything will be okay.
Even if I know it won’t be.
They said I would be the first one to see it, that I’d be the eye of the future. And that it would come in the form of a monster, of a hunchbacked man in the orange sky, reaching toward me, reaching out to me—
Upon insemination there would be a choice; at the end of the world there will be a choice, one made by the frail girl on the cool concrete. Sweat forms in droplets on her skin. Time comes together. And if she is the future, she is either the future or nothingness, and she must choose. The leech man who sucks your bloodlife away—or you destroy the seed of darkness within you and create a world better than this—
less angry than this, less disappointed and ashamed. Melt away the clouds.
I went outside and saw the leech man and he was coming for my heart. God damn him to hell if he dared reach for me.
I went back inside and ignored the omen.
Risk everything and create anew.
Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
This is what I know about the Black Ghost:
He travels freely between our houses, amongst all our neighbour’s bedrooms and kitchens, but he is strongest in Jeff’s basement. In other houses, he changes colours, but when he is in the cool, dark basement, he is Black.
He also comes to my house.
He left us some clues when we were children, too naïve to truly understand them but ambitious enough to let curiosity compose our afternoons; now, adults, these messages remain: a key, a footprint, blood, and a light.
Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
(constantly trying to make sense of things).
A Black Ghost. A Key. A Footprint. Blood. A Light.
(those were my grades in elementary school—perfect in all except gym—my cowardice—small frame)
Black Ghost. Key. Footprint. Blood. Light.
BGKFBL.
I don’t think I know anything else.
Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
This is what I know about the Black Ghost:
He travels freely through my thoughts sometimes, randomly, while waiting for the bus or while doing the dishes. I’ll be taking a long drive, my mind wandering—always, it wanders, nomadic—and memories drift back. My childhood—I wonder if Jeff ever remembers the Black Ghost.
He haunted our daydreams and nightmares. My heart pounded whenever we went on the prowl, searching for the dark shadow that pervaded our houses. He was tall, large—we knew this—and his sense of humour was unnerving. He made disturbing offhand comments that you could only hear if you held your breath; and you held your breath when he lurched by. We knew these things—yet did we ever really, really, talk about them? About the wretched screaming we heard at night—or the deafening silence—the separate beds—the separate loves. I know that the Black Ghost scared the shit out of me, so much that I could barely even acknowledge it.
Sometimes Jeff and I just played HORSE in his driveway. For a while I had some semblance of aim—but those basketball games and excursions into his basement, armed with bats and brooms, ready to combat the forces of darkness—all those afternoons gradually disappeared, our time spent together less and less.
less and less—and little by little we grew up in our own weird ways.
Me, I sometimes think about the Black Ghost. Where did he retreat after we stopped worrying about him? I thought I saw him once, blue, like a beautiful scarf, in my next-door-neighbour’s upstairs window, but it was just a passing colour, an after image on the screen.
Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
I try to decode the old messages. The clues and suspects left behind. Rearrange the letters and try to decipher—what, meaning from my childhood? Ha. Take only what you need from it.
Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
What I know about the Black Ghost: the light turns on and off, the blood pumps and flows. There are some footprints made by you and me, in the sand, at the edge the world. And there is a key, which may or may not unlock the doors—but we keep trying, continually risking, and hoping the effort is worth the while.
I keep trying to be happy. And though the black ghost hovers, I don’t think I should give him so much power anymore.
Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
Of course the seas eventually revolted—but the revelation began with the octopus. Creeping up her leg, a twisting, tangled blend of colour and form—oozing its juices, smelling hers; surely this looks extraordinarily unusual—perhaps even kinky in your vocabulary. Let me assure you of one thing: it is fantastic in every sense of the word: a wildness within, a thrill of my senses, heated pheromones distinctly indicative of their desire: —
Can we not explain it somehow? Through art or pornography or whatever you choose to call it? Of course the seas revolted—they probably would have regardless of the home or the health or the heartbreaking—but perhaps, for some of the stranger of us, the turn of tide began somewhere with an octopus—on a girl—in a pen&ink sketch—in a screaming/exhausting novel? Maybe. Weird fantasies, atypical thoughts: wherever it started, arrest the perverts and plagiarists for planting the seed. Call them to trial, lay out eight lines of text and ask them to eat their own words.
They will, I can tell you.
We are hungry with desire—but we are not ashamed to stuff our mouths (or our cunts) with the strange and beautiful books that offend or concern, or with the art that so initiates, discovers, and eventually sustains this new life form.
The octopus curls—claim it—around my leg, and I am still getting used to the pleasure. But it is somehow familiar. Sucking, throbbing, rubbing—I remember what this feels like: text—ink—tattoos—tongues—
Touch me, touch my octopus.
Incidentally, cork sales were up due to deuterium figures sliding, which meant that May’s cork-and-pipecleaner-reindeer keepsakes weren’t as abundant this year, nor as affordable. The rest of the Christmas stock remained the same, as it always did, Yes, I always tried to keep my prices reasonable, but now one of her most prized items, the one all the neighbourhood kids bought each year for their parents and grandparents alike, was not as available as it had been in the past; O they’re still just a beautiful—so cute! and lively! May shakes her head a bit, amends Lifelike! Their spindly legs and googly eyes—they sometimes look as though they’re about to leap off the table, Flying Santa’s sleigh! And then there’s the accompanying mini-sleighs, made with heavy paper and wire, dotted with glitter, ribbon for reins—May’s so proud of this, as she is with every season’s best seller: Spring’s handmade robin’s nest with tiny, bright eggs, and a hand-painted bird house for the pompom-and-pipecleaner Mother Robin; Summer’s sunhats, decorated with ribbons of all colours and false flowers; Fall’s dried-leaf, ironed tissue-paper placemats in orange, brown, and green. Often her seasonal stock was different each year—she’d been here a lot of years—but these four items were a constant. My customers depend on me! May worries a lot. Especially after Anthony, creepy that he is, told her that something about hydrogen levels drying up cork the way the sponges we paint with dry up if we don’t use them—I haven’t painted with sponges in a while, haven’t I? Or with potato shapes either.
“May! What are you doing? You’re off in space again, y’old grandma, worrying about getting enough cork to make enough reindeer to please enough of the neighbourhood urchin. Doesn’t that seem a little, I dunno, stupid to you?”
Nurse Morrison leads away Anthony, and she turns her head around to smile blandly at May—who, startled and taken aback, twists some red pipecleaner around her finger and wonders if it’s possible to rehydrate cork.
Fuck you, I’ll piss wherever I want, Mister Lawn. You could stand a little watering anyway. Nobody kissing in the shadows, at least. ’Member that time ’bout couple weeks ago, got my pecker out ’n then there’s these two kids, high school maybe, staring at me like I’m the perv. She’d even missed a button on her blouse in all her scuffle-cuffuffle. Nope, nobody here. Ahh. Time to move on. I don’t mind these walks so much anymore, these late-night walks. It’s quiet and peaceful, and if I’m quiet too, no one’ll bother me. I can stumble down these streets like a ghost. Like the ghost who’s with me. At first I couldn’t even go on these walks, though I wanted to so bad. Wanted Miriam with me, like always. I just stayed at home without any thought of the future—of how I would continue my daily life, pay bills, buy groceries—basically function. And I heard her everywhere, god I heard her all the fucking time. She begged me to join her, to follow her outside—into the wild depths of our old dreams and memories, into the bliss of regressing. I could no longer do it alone; not without her, not without some kinda help. Outside, I began walking our familiar ways, winding among the streets, searching for her—hidden in any tree or bush, under any car or porch. The retail district was no better, for she appeared as every mannequin and postergirl. Downtown led me to the best place Miriam’s ghost could offer: a place to sit—and laugh—and enjoy memories rather than cry over them—to drink with others than to drink alone. I haven’t got close connections with hardly any of them, but they let me in on their games—me, the wise old timer, the one who can’t take a shower without a railing to grasp onto but who can still flip a switchblade dead centre with a pint of rum under his belt. Goddammit, don’t you think I know it, I’m pathetic? There’s the part that stumbles home, that drags the bad leg and sees all the ghosts—that tries to dance—stumbles—and there’s the part that staggers home ’shamed, also seeing all the ghosts—trying to ignore them, trying to drown them. But where can I go if I must leave my empty, lonely home? Amongst these grim and gloomy streets, where once we walked—happy? Happiness. O yes, I remember that. But fuck it tonight. I’ve swallowed more liquid happiness than emotion can sustain—and so I am numb. I stagger homeward—without you, my love. Tomorrow night I’ll walk the walk again, hoping to find you and the old way. That I miss so very much. Fuck, it’s cold out here.
If you squish his brains, the head cooks slower, but you can collect the juices without tapping into it. The skull, I mean. If that sort of thing interests you. I’m not really one for the runoff, I must say; sloppy food isn’t really my ideal. Thanksgiving fatties who pile on three cups of gravy, let it drip its way to their mouths. They go around tucking each other’s napkins into their shirt collars and then burping with a hearty sigh. Expanding waistbands.
The interesting thing about my method of cooking is that I know how to enrich the body’s natural, low-fat and tasty nutrients. My technique is stellar, though I must be a bit modest.
And there is the added bonus of settling. Not many chefs realize that the brain juices—the bloody, mineral-rich, fluid which seeps throughout the cranium—will coagulate, or jellify, when put under extremely acute heat whilst still in the skull. Like a bowl, the skull will be the hole-in-one, homemade casserole dish, into which one inserts a blow torch tip; the juices gather, the brains cook, and the outside flesh remains untouched so that the final product can be created without chance of burning. The juices gathered upon the cooked grey matter should also be bubbly without boiling dry. After we finish torching the meat, allow twenty minutes for cooling. And this should ensure a good sauce.
After cooling, add the rest of your spices to the gelatinized layer and stir into the brain. This is probably when you want to scrap the sides of the skull for any stuck-on bits, as the second heat application often makes the thin, extra pieces of meat too tough to chew through, let alone scrape off. Cover mixture with a layer of cheese, some fresh parsley, and ground pepper, then cover the entire head with aluminium foil and put in a pre-heated oven at 350° for 45 minutes.
What, you say you can’t make something like this? That you don’t have the flair or the stamina? That’s mere proof of your dedication.
Let me see your FDA stamp of approval.
And in the meantime, please try a bite of this brainstew. I’m pretty sure you’ll like it.
I laugh [staged and practiced], I smile [perfectly]. I shoot witty one-liners [stolen from obscure movies and lyrics (but no one here will know that)]. A specially crafted monster of attention. What’s bred in bone [what has been taught] and [what is obeyed]. I am such a good girl. I tell the right stories with all the important, heavy pauses [dramatic exaggeration reels in the audience and pulls on their precious heart-strings (barf)]. Sometimes the lights make me sick and I’m led offset to rest up [I am such a diva and have learned to take advantage of hypochondriac and psychosomatic indulgences] meaning: [impressions and pressures, inside my head and all around me (infecting everyone else, but I think I might be the only one who realizes it)]. I lie on the couch with my head in my mother’s lap [her hand holding a cool cloth to my forehead]. My knees are arched up [and anybody who walked by could see up my dress (heavy, poofy, flowery dress), see my white tights with the little hearts stitched in them (hot and unnecessary)]. I don’t care, cannot care, about anything right now. The lights are everywhere [so bright], their glare is what I will remember most. For some reason my father walks into the greenroom and starts taking pictures of us on the couch [flashes of light], emphasizing the pounding [put a little girl in a box and play her a recording of a jack hammer (at deafening volumes)]. My mother shoos him away [with a hiss and a glare], asks what she can do for me [always asking what she can do]. I have another four or five hours to go. I must put on my face again. Stand up straight and ask sweet questions instead of complaining [I do complain a lot, I’ll admit (but I get away with it)], I even convince myself [so dramatic]. I go to the sink and I wash my face [cold water against hot skin]. My mother brushes my hair a bit [long, blonde, done up in braids and bows (triggers)]. We return to the set, the lights on me [the miraculous] and my mother [the brave]. The audience is on the edge of their seats [bleachers] because that’s the cue [look excited]. We tell the story [again], play the video [again], broadcast my history [bodily, emotionally, unconsciously (unintentionally wounding / creating a monster)]. And smile [perfectly] through all of it [even all these years later].
Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
DRAMATICS & SECRETS OVER TEA
My o my, am I exhausted! From dawn til five o’clock shadow I’ve cleaned this house—our cozy, two-storey house, so quaint and yet so sophisticated, with old toys and new robots mingling amongst each other—I’ve cleaned this house and paid the bills and gotten the kids safely to and from school. Phew!
I throw myself down on the antique sofa to rest. Actually, we’re not supposed to sit on it; I move aside the doll collection when my husband isn’t home. I should tell you about my husband! We’ve been married eight years in October—I just love fall weddings—and he has given me the two most adorable children. They’re in kindergarten and first grade, my oldest being considered for the gifted program! He looks just like my husband, I tell you—the eyes are the same. Our youngest looks like me, but the older one is just a spitting image of his father.
We didn’t imagine we’d have both children quite so close in age; in fact, we hadn’t actually planned to have both at all. After several years of being newlyweds, my husband and I tried to have children, but my uterus wasn’t receptive—though I’m not really supposed to discuss matters of that kind. Anyway, we finally agreed to allow my husband’s wiring to be replicated for familial purposes.
The DNA sat for months and we were told that if the reproductive process hadn’t began by now, there was little chance that the cells would ever divide and create a new being. So my husband and I returned to our daily lives without hope of children. Perhaps we’d adopt? We weren’t sure.
About a year later, my unpredicted, miraculous pregnancy was predicated by an even bigger surprise: there was also a mutation from my husband’s cells, already into the second trimester! Somehow, by some trick of fate, our baby in the womb was younger than the baby in the tank, but it didn’t matter; my husband and I were thrilled.
Ooh, what lovely children we have!—so bright and clean and inquisitive. I tell them it’s good to ask questions, it’s good to know where you came from, but to mind whom you ask and when. My husband and I may disagree on some issues, but we always encourage our children’s obedience in this world. I mustn’t tell you this, but my husband nearly lost his job because of an offhand comment to a co-worker at the factory; you never can be too careful. After the close call, I wanted to relocate, for the threat of unemployment was unfair when his very creation was conditional upon being put to use—but my husband just closed his mouth and shook his head.
He told me to keep my lips sealed, and here I am, yammering on like a mad woman! Perhaps my husband is right, that he and our oldest will survive the extermination because of their encoding—because they’re encoded, because they are not human—but I just can’t imagine not having this sweet little life! If I just curl up here—on this old sofa, centuries and centuries preserved by a local company specializing in antiques before the 3000’s. They have the most interesting things. For instance, the other day I went into the store and saw a bed with tall iron posts at each corner; the salesman called it a canopy-style—but I was too embarrassed to ask what that meant. Sometimes I feel so much more unlearned than the rest of the community. I know there are other female human beings in my neighborhood, but I doubt they get quite so much pleasure from their housewifery as I do. I simply love the old way of things, the manual way to clean a floor or to dust the bookshelf.
Imagine: If I just stay here a little longer, on this island from long ago, will I remember the old times? Beside woven ragdolls and knitted blankets, will I connect with where I believe I came from? Or am I eternally in this present—the glossy, automated makings of a dream.
I am: one of many sent through to this world from what you call your present. Maybe it would be mine—if I were not in this particular pink and green-polka-dotted dress, with this specific checkered apron—but those circumstances differ only slightly. Maybe that’s why I’m so chatty today, feeling like an old neighbour dropped by for tea.
Imagine, if that’s what we were—so close in time, our neighbouring selves—from my future-present to your past-present, one moment comprised of us in all places.
I don’t understand why people use dubious disclaimers. When I say something mean it’s because it is mean and I am a cunt—or maybe I’m just being honest: I want a fucking revolution and it’s going to start regardless of your ignorance; I’m not going to sugar-coat it for anyone, especially you. Just because you’re blood doesn’t mean I have to like you; just because you’re police chief doesn’t mean I have to agree with you; just because I’m an English major doesn’t mean I have to be a teacher—or a giver—or am somehow more capable of explaining our circumstances to you. I tried for a philosophy minor. It didn’t work.
Because I am a writer, I make my life from what I say to you, but I cannot do it in the way you may like (read: understand). Sometimes we have to make our voices heard through t-shirts and signs, buttons, posters, and handbills—sometimes we use loud-speakers or megaphones—or I might write my own protest, my own way, even if I know that you usually can’t read my fragmented, pornographic texts. You don’t know how to read them—I cannot speak your language: your self-righteous, ass-kissing, finger-pointing dialogue.
Sometimes people protest. Sometimes people protest when I say, “I think there should be more funding for the Arts rather than for the construction of another Ivey building.” Sometimes people protest when over 1,000 arrests were made, many of which were unnecessary and unexplained, violent and violating—when age and race and gender were exploited for the amusement of some power-tripping pigs—when a group of journalists and protestors and bystanders were walled in by grim police officers and made to stand in the pouring rain for several hours—simply because they didn’t believe that one billion dollars was necessary for a world-summit that should not even have occurred in downtown Toronto—because they were asking questions about their country, talking about civil liberties and exercising their right to free speech when officers disregarded them—because they were singing songs and anthems, doing cartwheels and taking photographs.
You have not sugar-coated it for me: I hear exactly what you are saying: You don’t live in a democracy anymore. Go back to sleep. You have masked your words for others; submissive, lazy people, ready to accept whatever excuse offered, so prepared to believe in a government which has manipulated its conservative agenda so much that its own ignorance truly is bliss. You believe yourself when you say that your police did an excellent job—even the ones who kicked senior citizens and punched unarmed, unthreatening civilians—even the ones weren’t wearing visible identification. You believe yourself.
But I don’t. And I know there are others. We share a common lack of faith in the current political system’s security of peace, management of money, chain of authority, and preservation of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms.
I am a writer, just as Strayer and Trudeau, just as those who drafted our rights—not privileges. People may read the same words, but if you’re actually aware of your place in this country—actually aware—then you may read something different.
And it isn’t sweet. It’s just how we feel.
Slithering around our legs were dozens of limbs—no, tentacles. Up along the binary ridges were strange hanging vines which oozed purple. When I finally gazed across the the sludgy horizon is when Karen spoke, Where’s god now? But it was I who spoke—I am the speaker. The seer. There’s nothing slithering around our eggs. We have none, no meals to eat, as our own arms turn a sensuous shade of green and begin to ooze thick, bubbly jelly. The sun feeds my addiction and I turn my face toward its rays, stretch and press my face against glass, warm. In that sky, there’s nothing but heat and extreme cold, there’s nothing but. When Karen or I muttered all of a sudden a moment ago, I looked up and saw the entire endless sky, gargantuan and void. Look back the void stares long enough. I’ll deliver the wisdom here, if my mouth doesn’t get swallowed up in violet liquid first. We’re being drowned by our own fluids, uncontrollably pouring out more and more goooo. As it rises around us, Karen tries to swim upward, making useless motions with her tentacle-arms—no, not useless—she pulls me along through the river we create. She’ll pay my toll. Keep your head above the gurgling, googling stream, keep your face turned upward—keep searching the skies…
For what? What do you think you’ll see that will change the order of the universe, recreating our society as the first with true knowledge—scientifically, theologically, and philosophically—not to mention send loads of new meaning into your personal, individual life?
I don’t think so.
There isn’t a universal truth.
So either find your own and keep your head above the gooey, viscous, swirling liquid that engulfs your body—drain your apartment of the mysterious blood seeping from your addicted arms and your hungry mouth and your lusting—reset the pretences and comb back Karen’s hair—or realize it’s your own creation and you’re bound by it, fatally. You bleed art—and you don’t drown either.
I am no longer sure if I dream about you because you are a relic in my past, no longer tangible but a one-dimensional, static memory, or because I miss you and wish you were here sometimes. Sitting beside me on the sofa, the television casting a blue light on our cheekbones—standing beside me in the kitchen, chopping up a multicoloured stir-fry—walking with me, down our street, with our handsome watchdog and our bright, happy children.
They say that the death a child is the hardest loss to endure, even more so than a spouse. Whoever they are, they’re wrong.
I birthed another being—two, actually—and yet I feel that my bones extend into yours—that you finish where I end off.
That is not to say that I don’t love my children—how could I not? How could I possible overlook the tender life I have created, these two broken bodies producing whole, human babies without a scar or a lie. Children, perfect innocence? That I cannot believe—but they haven’t a responsibility to the pain or destruction of this world, not yet at least. That comes with the baptism—with the birthday—with the graduation from high school and the advance into adulthood—I mean:
You and I created, body to body, two beings. These we set upon the world our own created way—but our love was created first. The first two beings were us. And that is what I miss—through the flood of memories, the insomnia, the years since you have died.
Sometimes I sit up at my kitchen table, the bills piled on one counter behind me, the stove with the busted pilot light next to me—my company for the long night? Appliances. Two by two, each set divorced itself; parents separating, children coming of age. Sometimes I sit up at my kitchen table and envy my children, they who do not know the pain of sitting here alone, without you.
I thought it automatically, naturally. All these months of knowing you and learning your language, then suddenly it’s as loud as your voice in my head. All my ridiculousness summed up in one silly word.
*
We have been sitting around doing nothing.
Or rather, you two have been playing video games between rounds of discussing politics and art and dabbling in the excesses. She’s been napping and editing photos and I’ve been taking in the toxins of the text.
Family portrait:
The two of us.
And the two of you.
Then our black sheep and the dinosaurs, ready to battle—whether lame or outcast, they still represent courageously—though the robot may insult them and the monster simply glows.
Glows in the night when we’re lonely. I won’t lie, I won’t say I don’t get lonely for my family sometimes.
There is a world. And there is another world, but it is older, gone now.
*
There’s a ghost behind everything. He’s been there since the beginning, since before our beginning even; surprised me one night by making soft noises in the room next door, my gentle companion. Invisible.
Sometimes he leaves his socks around.
And there’s a plentiful, whorish plant overlooking the brood, even though it may appear that we’re tending him. We have our pasts simultaneously chronicled—the green elephant ear my friend through it all.
Something to remind me that there’s always life in here—there’s always something breathing.
*
What’s my word, as good as nothing? Whoever’s reading this—if anyone’s reading this—knows I’ve gone off the deep end. Follow me through my drunken ramblings. There is structure to these fragments.
The memories in my life—the past connected and disconnected from where I sit at this moment. Whether the word is derp or family or love or creation, I don’t know. But it is where I am gazing—
through my foggy eyes,
through this muddled text,
in my bed next to you,
everything and everyone I need in one place.
Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
Ella’s over to play, even though we’re only friends some of the time. But she lives down the block, so if there’s nobody else around we’ll play together. Once I threatened to punch her in the stomach because she was bugging me, and she ran home to tell on me so fast that my mom was waiting, really angry, on my front porch. Ella’s mom had already phoned.
Anyway, she’s over and her tooth is loose—her bottom one to the left—and we decide that we should yank it out and then try to catch the Tooth Fairy that night. She could be our secret friend. Well, first we have to get out the tooth and convince our moms to let us have a sleepover.
Ella sits on the toilet seat while I wrap her loose tooth with a Kleenex and try wiggling it in her open mouth.
She looks up at me with doe eyes that I really can’t stand.
“Ez et oerking?” she says.
“Yeah, I think so,” I tell her, twisting the tooth a little. Ella winces a little and I let up, watching her squirm and then regain composure, her jaw hanging slack. The Kleenex is getting a bit bloody.
Whatever. I’m the one pulling it out, not feeling the pain.
I twist the tooth again, stronger this time—and let up again immediately. Coax it along.
“What are you two doing?”
My mother’s standing in the bathroom doorway.
“My tooth is loose!” Ella says gleefully.
My mom narrows her eyes and asks if we’re twisting it. We say no, and ask if Ella can sleep over.
“Please, mom, please? We’ll be good!”
“I’ll call my mom and ask!”
“No,” mom says, “I’ll phone your mom and ask.”
We all smile innocently at each other and then mom goes back downstairs. As soon as we hear her start talking, Ella opens her mouth again, and I go in for the kill.
“Ohhwww.”
Success!
Ella grins with a gap, eyes shining, blood dribbling down her chin, and the tooth in a soggy tissue. So far so good. Ella runs to the top of the stairs and yells down at my mom that her tooth came out, will the tooth fairy know to visit me here?
Ella goes home shortly after that to collect her overnight bag. My mom and I put a fresh spread on my top bunkbed after clearing off all the stuffed animals. There are a lot. I have a collection. I don’t like sleeping far off the ground, which is kind of funny considering I have a bunk bed and most kids like to be up high. I like to climb trees, but other than that, no thanks.
Anyway, my mom and I finish making up my room and then go downstairs to make supper, me plotting all the while.
*
After dinner Ella and I write down the plan in my notebook. It’s from Thrifty’s and is made from the seat of a pair of blue jeans. The pockets hold pens and notes and really any kind of paper you want to hide in there. It’s pretty cool. My older sister has one too.
“We need to make a house for her to stay in,” I say. We’re sitting on my bedroom floor, on the rug with a howling wolf on it. My door is closed.
“It should have a lid so she can’t fly out.”
“She’s not a prisoner.”
“I know.”
We both look around the room but see nothing that would be a suitable house—any kind of container big enough for a fairy.
“How big do you think she is?” I ask.
Ella stops looking around and sits still for a second. “Um, probably pretty big, cuz she has to carry teeth.”
“That makes sense.”
We get up and go to the playroom. There’s lots of stuff in there—there has to be something for a house.
In the bottom of the games closet, under a basket of plastic dinosaurs, there’s a square, pink box with a snap-on lid. It’s pretty big.
“How’bout that?” I point, but Ella’s already working on weaselling it out. We take the blue box and the tub of Barbie clothes back to my room. Before shutting ourselves away again, I look in the craft cabinet at the top of the stairs. My mom has spent years collecting the soap beds from her Clinique face soap, saving them in case she ever builds a dollhouse that requires tiny green beds. I find the box of soap beds—far too many of them, holy moly—and choose the largest. I also find some foam scraps to use as a mattress.
Back in my bedroom, we’re picking out pretty Barbie clothes to offer to the Tooth Fairy and decorating the empty inside of the blue box “house.” We layer the bottom with a nicely folded scarf my mom bought me from a global goods store. It’s pure silk, I think.
There’s a knock on my door. It’s mom.
“What are you girls doing?” she asks.
“We’re going to catch the Tooth Fairy tonight!” we tell her excitedly, each interrupting the other as we explain how we’re going to hide Ella’s tooth so that the Tooth Fairy won’t know where it is right away. Then we’re going to fake sleep. When she flies into the room, I (on watch) will signal to Ella who’ll throw down a blanket to cover the fairy. Then we’ll shut the window and try to convince her to stay. We’ll show her the house we set up and the clothes we’ve picked out for her—some really pretty dresses, shoes, and capes. And we’ll tell her how nice we are and how close we both live—just down the block from each other—which means Ella can visit and play all the time.
I never mention that I don’t really like Ella all that much and probably won’t have her over again, which means that I get to play with the magical Tooth Fairy all by myself.
My mom might suspect this, which is why when we’re finished telling her about our plan, she raises her eyebrows and says, “Really? Great.” She sounds a little tired and looks at me funny. She tells us to have fun and then leaves.
*
Ella and I are “ready” for bed—meaning that we told my mom no, we weren’t going to stay up all night long, that we were going to go to sleep. As soon as my mom says goodnight and leaves, we whisper in the dark to each other:
“I’ll keep watch.”
“I won’t fall asleep, don’t worry.”
We are both so intent, believing so honestly that we can actually catch this secret dream.
*
We both fall asleep.
And in the morning, Ella looks under her blanket at the foot of the bed, where she hid her tooth, and there a shiny Loonie wrapped up in the Kleenex instead of Ella’s gross little tooth.
“You fell asleep!”
“So did you!”
I shrug. “There are other chances, I guess.” More of Ella’s teeth I could pull out, if I could stand her.
“We better go show your mom and dad, I guess.”
Downstairs, even though we’re slightly disappointed and a little annoyed with ourselves for falling asleep, mom’s chocolate chip pancakes in animal shapes cheer us up. By the end of breakfast, we’ve lost interest in the Tooth Fairy endeavour all together.
Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
Look at this scrawl. The plan.
And yet, it is only now, after all these years, that I realize we didn’t write down Catch the Tooth Fairy, the most important part of the whole operation. A rather vital step, don’t you agree?
Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.
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