Luminosity, pt.II

I

II

III

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.

Shock Stock 2011

This past weekend Vagrancy Films and Grimbrothers Entertainment hosted Shock Stock, a celebration of horror and exploitation subculture. Guests included Dyanne Thorne and Howard Mauer; Betsy Baker, Ellen Sandweiss, Theresa Tilly, and Hal Delrich from The Evil Dead; Linnea Quigley; Thor; Molly Dunsworth and Nick Bateman from Hobo With a Shotgun; and Robert Skipper, as well as a variety of vendors: Troma, Twisted T’s, The Butcher Shop, AAH! Altered Arte & Handicrafts, City Lights Bookshop, Suspect Video, and many more.

Sunflower Skins and Sweater Eyes made their  collaborative public debut with great success, sending off Catopuses and Bulimic Belugas into the world and being, without a doubt, the most adorable table at the convention.

Thanks to James Bialkowski, Jake Grimbrother, Dr. Duke, and Sonny Baker for a fantastic time; special thanks to Scotty for buying the very first comic book; and extraordinary love to my cohorts and family for pulling it off. This is only the beginning.

Final & Future Days

Final Days of university. Five years later.

Have we been celebrating? Yes, we have.

And what have we been making?

Sunflower Skins at Shock Stock, London Ontario, April 29 – May 1, 2011.

Visit here for expo information; visit here for Sweater Eyes, who will be sharing our table; and visit here for the FaceBook event page.

plagiarism/freedom

Feed the Whales & Exhale with Pleasure (no religion): Sunflower Skins and Sweater Eyes buttons available at Shock Stock, April 29th - May 1st, 2011.

Guam Sees Guam in Duo-Vision

Sweater Eyes Photography Sketches, Experiment 15

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.

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.

Sweater Eyes Photography Sketches, Experiment 14

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.

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.

Sweater Eyes Photography Sketches, Experiment 13

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.

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.

Sweater Eyes Photography Sketches, Experiment 12

NOT YOUR AVERAGE

Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.

People look at scars and almost without fail think pain is unwanted. They see my arm and envision a suicidal 16-year-old girl—skinny and melodramatic—black eyeliner running and pop punk on my iPod.

They take a look at The Catcher in the Rye and think, Yeah, I remember reading that and identifying with troubled youth at the time. But that’s old hat. I’m an adult now.

So am I. But I will always remember what it was like then.

It is late afternoon. I only woke up about 40 minutes ago and I’m already feeling unconquerably lazy. The boy is at work until 6 and has to bus it home; I have several hours of summer sunshine left to play in, but there’s no way I’m getting out of my pajamas or leaving the house.

I probably look a little ridiculous. My daisy bra and my Hello Kitty boxers. Plus extremely long, rainbow-striped socks.

You know what, fuck it. I look so fucking cute. It’s my sexual weapon. That, and my artsy, fake nipples.

Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.

Curled up in a corner of the sofa, wondering how to spend my afternoon. Stretch out my legs and flex my toes—so  perfectly matched to the end of the sock, black toes and a rainbow foot—lean over and work out a small kink in my left ankle, then roll onto my stomach. My belly, slightly cramped and sore, feels good against the cool suede. Looking over my shoulder, I see my small self stretched along the length of the loveseat.

When I was sixteen I was unhappy with my body, but wasn’t every other teenage girl? (Even the really popular ones, though they won’t admit it). Now it gives me its grieves and pains, but I in turn give it pains and pleasure. The needle brings me my own beauty and the knife gives me my own desire. Even when I didn’t understand and was unhappy, thinking of my body now brings comfort to my memory of that girl. Look at me: ridiculous, decorated, art- and sex-scarred—this beautiful, sweet, mysterious face:

I only show part of myself to strangers, even if the camera seems revealing.

And that is how I’ll spend the day, I think. Revealing pieces through photographs, exposing traumas through text. But what I’m not showing you? How I love. That is reserved for those who deserve it.

Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.

My cats trot into the room, interested by a passing bird on the back porch. One heads straight to screen and sits down an inch away from the glass. He’s still, intent. The other cat was distracted at the sight of me and has wandered over to say hello. I lie flat and put my face out to his furry one. He nuzzles me for a moment and then stops to yawn.

I roll back onto the couch and look up at the ceiling.

Parents stink. 32-year-olds shouldn’t have mohawks?—maybe more should. People look at the scars and the tattoos on my arms and torso, think, why would you put yourself through that? Hey stranger asking about my tattoo, don’t you realize pain reminds you that you can still feel something, even during the hardest nights? Hey stranger asking me about my body: this is mine. I can do whatever I want to it. And I’ll like it.

Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes.

If you haven’t been to Katie’s 365 blog, you should.

Sweater Eyes Photography Sketches, Experiment 11

Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.

PICKING OFF THUGS

This isn’t what they look like anymore.

They wear black and have shields and nightsticks. They come at you like a wall. They aren’t protecting you; you are the enemy.

Gauge my distance. He is in the open street—the old wooden tabletop—and has his back to the prisoner. The protestor. She is far away, hazy. We’ll get to her in a few minutes. Systematic terror first. I could take him down in a single shot, rubber bullets flying. He looks armed, but he isn’t. Even though he stands there, green and innocent—chanting, singing, smiling at pedestrians—I could take away every right he has. Within reason, of course. But this is without reason at all.

A senseless act repeated over and over throughout the days, a continual stamping of the foot, insisting, “There is no problem here. There is no reason for an inquiry.”

But I’ve got you in the eye of my lens, I’ve got you pinned. You have nowhere to go but where I tell you, and I’m not going to tell you anything. Just move. Stumble back across the tarmac, keep your gun or your camera or your cell phone steady, disbelieving the scene you are seeing. The place is the intersection—the park—the table. The space is closing in. Cries go unanswered, seemingly unheard as stone faces march forward. Their adrenaline is too high. They must love this. They won’t hear you.

If people are asking for an inquiry, that itself is a query and should remind you of the service you swore to uphold. There is something seriously wrong with picking off civilians as thugs. If you accept this, get out of our office.

Sweater Eyes Photography Sketches, Experiment 10

Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.

EATING WISDOM

At the ripe age of thirteen, full of spunk and fever, I once pronounced a curse of death upon my grandmother for making me come home early from a party. She didn’t approve of “the young people drinking.” That seems so many years ago, but I can remember her expression exactly, her no-nonsense, I-can-dish-it-right-back remark:

“Honey, you’re dying as soon as you’re born. Get used to it.”

What strikes me now is not the idea that life is a struggle or that our journeys are ending as soon as they’re beginning or whatever. It’s her attitude in the last part. Become familiar with your mortality—and your chance for error and injury and dishonesty. Get to know and understand your transgressions. Accept them.

In my first high school science class that fall I learned that adaptability is one of the nine characteristics of living things. To adapt despite the weather, to turn wherever there’s sunlight.

Purple bruised wound. Accept the ability to adapt to this shitty world? Why would I want to live through this?

My grandmother’s curse has come true: she’s dead and underground by now. I am standing here in my kitchen, looking at a vase of flowers. There were a lot of people at the funeral, but the church still seemed empty. My cat jumps onto the table and sniffs at the irises and baby’s breath, debating the possibility of eating some.

You try so many ways to get around the chaos, but you keep coming back to the same realization, that once upon a time, the chaos that balanced you.

Eat your words, baby girl. Tell yourself it will be alright and continually adapt to the infinite changes. Never stop changing. And in that, be constant.

Sweater Eyes Photography Sketches, Experiment 9

Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes.

VIOLET

An impromptu thunderstorm; I didn’t think it would come until tomorrow. The day, so humid and sticky, bellyaching. Threats all afternoon. The air, heavy, my eyelids lowered.

Rain in patterns, on and off; bright and dark, back and forth like my mood.

Smoky eyes. My body languid, smooth. I’ve come down to the basement to take refuge from the heat. Lightening strikes somewhere, but the thunder, it’s still far off. I have yet to feel the heart of it.

My evening out, hair frizzed and untamed. Cannot conquer. But enticing nonetheless. I sit down on the cool floor. Amongst boxes of wonderful, forgotten nights when I had some company with whom to share this hot, hot heat.

I listen to the rain and study the shape of my leg, the curve of the shoe; all colours reflected in empty bottles of vodka. A flash of light and my body rumbles. Already my dress is wet with sweat, stuck to my skin. Imagine the lightening striking my skin. What colours it would make. Sounds I hear like shifting glass, and water on the streets, pounding, pounding.

What difference would it make if I were sober?

The crack of lightening and thunder and gold glitter in my eyes, feel violent, feel like a million fucking bulbs have blown apart the sky and at last brought peace to the swaying, happy house.

Sweater Eyes Photography Sketches, Experiment 8

Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.

I’M SORRY, BUT I JUST CAN’T EAT IT

The cake looks delicious, it’s true. One of those homemade, surprisingly well put-together jobs by the family “chef.” I have taken a few bites to be polite. There’s too much sugar in the frosting—too sweet, it will overpower the raspberries and ruin the aftertaste if one chooses to eat the decoration. Which I don’t. Seeds in the teeth.

I take a look at the form.

The cake, moist, whipped well, icing dripping—so enticing—each slice cut to a perfect isosceles triangle, topped with large, fresh raspberries—and served on… drum roll… dollar store paper plates. Nice presentation, folks.

Only a monster could look at this and not want to eat anything. Then I am a monster. But I have good taste.

I look around the party: the birthday girl, just turned four, wearing a Dora the Explorer sweatshirt—I fucking hate Dora; the girl’s brother, older, on his third slice of cake already—and he’s engaged with his cousin in an eating contest; a dozen senile residents slobbering over themselves and the children; the totally inattentive, self-absorbed mother, whose own mother—Marilyn Brooks—the one responsible for this idiotic display of affection. I roll my eyes at my father, but he just gives me that What-do-I-know-Look. After all, I suppose I agreed to visit on this particular afternoon. I knew what loathsome humanity I’d come across.

Yet I come across it everywhere.

In every restaurant I see it, in every mall food court. Amongst concession stands at the ball parks and amid church bake sales. You people disgust me. Look at how you consume culture! Ooh, lookie! Hotdog stand flavoured chips.

The stench of the home has overwhelmed me. Must. get. fresh. air. So what if I’m being a little dramatic today? Being around children, even extraordinarily outgoing ones, makes me feel silly myself. Even though my childhood wasn’t silly. But I don’t want to play with other children right now—I’m cutting short my visit with father because I want to play with knives.

I remember reading: If there’s one thing that I despise, it’s the sound of steak sobbing—and smiling a little smile to myself. Perhaps I’m not alone in my playful thoughts.

Sweater Eyes Photography Sketches, Experiment 7

Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.

A TYPICAL CAULFIELD CONVERSATION

The opposite direction of the mummies, the left instead of right in the lobby, are the skeletons. You come into this massive circular room and there are these giant skeletons hanging from the ceiling. I guess when I was little I didn’t like to come in here a lot, like the birds or alligator bones scared me or some kind of crap like that, but I don’t remember that at all; I like them a lot, if you want to know, but that’s the kind of lousy stuff my parents would say if you asked about my childhood. Never anything normal, like how I’m doing well in school or that my birthday is coming up, but these really goddam personal things, I swear. It annoys me more than anything because it’s not true, like I said. Most kids like those kinds of things and get all gruesomely excited, while others turn peevish and whine over anything creepy, but I wasn’t one of the latter, for god’s sake.

I sometimes come here before going to see the mummies. Around the entire perimeter of the room are glass cases of smaller bones, animals like toads and snakes and fish. There’re a couple horses, an elephant. I’ve seen all of these and am not really interested in any of them right now. There’s this monkey skeleton on the other side of the big room, though, that always kills me. He’s on a branch, posed, leering at whoever looks in on him. The thing is, he looks like he’s laughing at you.

The only guy I know who’s crummy enough—cocky enough—to suppose himself among the likes of Salinger is Briton Self. Then I remember, suddenly, that he has and still does, most recently in his “statement regarding his new novel.” How could we live in a world phoney enough to presuppose itself every way, stealing from others and traversing, transgressing, transforming—making satirical, material, an empire for the senseless—? And sometimes—even currently—not even well! How could we call this art? A photograph of nature, of something somebody else already made—a block of plagiarized text, inverted from the original meaning? Shameless.

Send in your love/hate mail for Britain’s own leering monkey: www.myspace.com/britonself.

Sweater Eyes Photography Sketches, Experiment 6

Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.

POWER LINES

When I was little I used to believe that aliens were watching over the people of Earth, protecting us. I thought they took the form of UFOs, Northern Lights, miracles (specifically in the form of speaking in tongues and other related religious phenomena), but mostly, I believed in the power lines, a stoic army standing guard.

Now, flick away my cigarette, shove hands in pockets.

The grids across America have produced such cultural phenomena as strip malls, fast food restaurants, subway systems, and used car dealerships. Mass amounts of electricity, sent at high voltages to minimize the energy lost in long distance transmissions, now beyond any nightmare I had as a boy.

I wasn’t much beyond acquiring language at the time of the oil spill, but I was perfect for producing the next generation of Thalidomide babies, war amps, PTSD patients. AIDS. Bubonic plague. Unknown outbreaks, particularly in the northeast. New York City, or what remains.

Spare some change?

Cynic, someone sneers.

I have been watching, been part of it, all along. Part of the machine, just like you. When I was little, even, I believed in something constricting. I was born into a tyrannical world—a choked, ruthless, conservative world.

Crimes against humanity?

Yeah, right. What remains.

Do I have the energy to tell this story? My exhaustion seeps like sweat and smoke from my skin. Pockmarked. Slight jaundice. There’s little vegetation readily available. If I can find something to revive me, maybe find a place to spend the night before returning to Toronto. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I go home again. Back to my own city, where no one has missed me—but I can’t afford to be caught across the border, and urban sprawl ensures watchmen, so I must keep going. Keep walking, stumble through the alleys. Beware of strangers, dizziness, and airplanes.

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POWER LINES

When I was little I used to believe that aliens were watching over the people of Earth, protecting us. I thought they took the form of UFOs, Northern Lights, miracles (specifically in the form of speaking in tongues and other related religious phenomena), but mostly, I believed in the power lines, a stoic army standing guard.

Now, flick away my cigarette, shove hands in pockets.

The grids across America have produced such cultural phenomena as strip malls, fast food restaurants, subway systems, and used car dealerships. Mass amounts of electricity, sent at high voltages to minimize the energy lost in long distance transmissions, now beyond any nightmare I had as a boy.

I wasn’t much beyond acquiring language at the time of the oil spill, but I was perfect for producing the next generation of Thalidomide babies, war amps, PTSD patients. AIDS. Bubonic plague. Unknown outbreaks, particularly in the northeast. New York City, or what remains.

Spare some change?

Cynic, someone sneers.

I have been watching, been part of it, all along. Part of the machine, just like you. When I was little, even, I believed in something constricting. I was born into a tyrannical world—a choked, ruthless, conservative world.

Crimes against humanity?

Yeah, right. What remains.

Do I have the energy to tell this story? My exhaustion seeps like sweat and smoke from my skin. Pockmarked. Slight jaundice. There’s little vegetation readily available. If I can find something to revive me, maybe find a place to spend the night before returning to Toronto. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I go home again. Back to my own city, where no one has missed me—but I can’t afford to be caught across the border, and urban sprawl ensures watchmen, so I must keep going. Keep walking, stumble through the alleys. Beware of strangers, dizziness, and airplanes.

Sweater Eyes Photography Sketches, Experiment 5

Chosen by Katie herself, here is today’s photograph and accompanying experiment.

Days and nights of happiness.

Photograph by Katie Vanderhaeghe, Sweater Eyes. Click to enlarge.

DANTE ON THE STAIRS

A staircase made of grating, a downward descent. Katabasis for the soul.

Flash, instant, my guide’s role reversed: my Dante, taking me through hell and upward to the light.

Separate what I know from what I see before me; try to imagine it differently, see this through naïve eyes. Richer from knowledge? In some ways, yes. Multiple perspectives and multiple genders, traversing different lives and letting what happened, happen. But only once; I no longer live in that moment.

This moment, on the stairs. About the jump into my lap, beside me, on the step above me. Doesn’t matter, he’s here.

Looking through my own eyes, hair and dust, glass. Reframe it. Review. Reword.

I’m sitting on the soft plush of the staircase, about two thirds up. Dante, soft and petite, his every bone I know—Dante, alert, vigilant, lying on my chest—this cat is watching my every move. He knows my vices. He doesn’t mind.

I can’t capture everything in this picture: the sound of matches and videogames, the heat from the bed, the intense comfort of my first home—but you see this space with a little bit of what I love. Finally: my Dante, myself, my art, and space: space filled and to be filled. Empty space and possibility.