October 22, 2011
March 11, 2011
December 9, 2010
November 28, 2010
August 25, 2010
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 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.
Like this:
July 11, 2010
Experiment 10: googoo gagod
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.
