catattack

Above, about as much attention as Maggie ever showed me: hesitation, a quick sniff, and then just beyond my reach. Getting older now and finally gaining some weight, the skinny calico I had as a teenager still comes yowling down the hallway when I visit home, but rarely does she let me pet her. Maggie was named after Bach’s wife, Anna Magdalena; Bach, himself, lived on in spirit in my mother’s once-darling pet, a cockatoo named J.S. Bird. Despite all the baroque, mother successfully taught it to whistle the opening bars to Beethoven’s 5th symphony. I wonder if Maggie would be impressed.

And speaking of catattacks, have you been to Sweater Eyes’s official website? There are too many cats to count on the homepage alone. Photos, plushies, and philosophy from the biggest cat lady of them all.

The Show

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 25^th, 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 21^st 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 21^st 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.

Sleepover Experiments, 2: The Black Ghost

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.

Sleepover Experiments, 1: How to Catch The Tooth Fairy

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.