Issue No. 1

may twenty-five 2 thousand

eight

FIGHTFIGHT TO BE SEEN PRAYPRAY TO BE HEARD

FOUND SLIDES

Curated by Jason Cawood

PLUS: Photography, Poetry, Painting

WWW.CURSIVEBUILDINGS.COM

M E G A - Z I N E

FIRST ISSUEFIRST ISSUE:

BOOM!BOOM!BOOM! A SHORT STORY BY PAMELA KLAFFKE

AHHHHH MEGA-ZINE

EDITED & PUBLISHED BY JOSHUA HEINEMAN

WWW.CURSIVEBUILDINGS.COM

SUBMISSION INQUIRIES

AHHHHH MEGA-ZINE 1246 BUSH STREET #18 SAN FRANCISCO, CA 94109 [OR ONLINE AT J@CURSIVEBUILDINGS.COM]

THANK YOU

Matea Basta Pamela Klaffke

FEATURED ARTISTS

Joshua Longbrake (Seattle, USA) Michelle K. Anderson (Portland, USA) Pamela Klaffke (Calgary, Canada) Zichuan Lian (Santa Barbara, USA) Dayna Bateman (Chicago, USA) Ian Ernzer (San Francisco, USA) Alan Campbell (Glasgow, Scotland) Edward Olive (Madrid, Spain) Jason Cawood (Regina, Canada)

ONE:

This magazine was born from a love of all things art… from the way we move through our daily chores to the ink we leave scattered on our notebook pages. It is all art. TWO:

This magazine wouldn’t be possible w/out the contributions of friends & strangers who feel in some ways the same. Otherwise we couldn’t spend so much time documenting. THREE:

This issue is now finished. But the magazine is a work in progress. If you want to be part of this project in the future, please contribute your work. Submission info is to the right. FOUR:

This magazine costs nothing. You’re encouraged to download & distribute as you see fit. However, I ask that all copies are printed in color to preserve the integrity of the work. FIVE:

Contributors are paid in karma. If you love what you see, please let them know. Where possible, web links & publishing information have been included for each artist.

NOTES from the EDITOR

Edinburgh, Scotland Joshua Longbrake, Seattle, USA WWW. T H E L O N G B R A K E .COM

Portland, Oregon Michelle Kathleen Anderson, Portland, USA WWW. M I C H E L L E K A N D E R S O N .COM

A short story by Pamela Klaffke

The hostess adds three checkmarks next to Adrienne’s name

before crossing it out in the reservations book. She pulls a menu with

a heavy, bound cover from a shelf behind her greeting station and

hands it to me. It’s not real leather. Sophia tugs on my leg and

whines, “Mommmmy….”

“Excuse me, but would it be possible to have a menu for her

as well?”

The hostess purses her lips. “Not a problem.”

“And for Sophia!” My daughter, Sophia, holds up her custom

made My Twinn doll that’s designed to look just like her. The doll is

also named Sophia and, as always, the Sophias are dressed identically

— today in princess dresses, tiaras and sparkly shoes. Everything is

pink. The hostess pulls another menu from the shelf.

Adrienne and her kids are already seated, menus in hand.

Trey, who’s eight, is holding his upside-down.

Sophia sits across from Isabella, Adrienne’s daughter, who

explains that she is not a regular princess, but a fairy princess. “I

have wings, see?” She twists sideways so I can get a better view of

the glittery wings held to her back with shoulder elastics. Isabella’s

My Twinn doll, Isabella, is also dressed as a fairy princess and is

slumped in a chair at the end of the booth beside Doll Sophia.

The room is loud and has terrible acoustics. Voices ricochet

off exposed brick walls, punctuated by a chorus of electronic beeps

and custom ring tones.

I recognize a man who works with Randall. He waves and

starts toward our table. I can’t remember his name. John? William?

Doug? Mitch? Something like that. As he gets closer I see he’s

wearing a suit that I know is Paul Smith because Randall has four

exactly like it. Robert? David? Leon? Mark? I’m quite sure his name

is not Leon. Conner? Roger? Brett? Across the table, Adrienne is

talking. I can’t make out a word but nod and smile as if I can. What

is his name? Lucas? Steven? Matthew? It’s Matthew. I know it; I’m

sure. He stops just short of our table when from somewhere in his

Paul Smith suit Guns ‘n’ Roses’ Welcome to the Jungle starts to play

on maximum volume and he hurries to the front of the restaurant to

take the call, joining the dozen men pacing and barking into their

phones. Text at the table, phone in the lobby, e-mail anywhere and

always. It’s the nouveau etiquette, the unwritten rules of a Wild West

Emily Post.

Sophia tells the waitress that Doll Sophia would like her

peppercorn steak prepared without peppercorns. Isabella orders the

orange chicken salad for Doll Isabella. Both girls order for

themselves pommes frites and spicy chicken cheese quesadillas minus

the spicy chicken. Isabella asks for ketchup. The waitress grimaces

but says she’ll see what she can do. Adrienne orders a glass of rosé

with her lunch and when I do the same she suggests we get a bottle.

The girls order pink drinks with grenadine and too much sugar. Trey

orders coffee. The waitress looks to Adrienne for approval. “Just like

BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!

his Daddy,” she shrugs and smiles.

Adrienne talks and talks. I lean into the table, but pick up

only every third or fourth word. The children entertain themselves.

“I am the princess of butterflies,” Sophia says. She’s five and

the princess of butterflies is a wonderful thing to be.

“I am the queen of the magic fairies,” announces Isabella.

She’s seven months older than Sophia and in first grade.

“Then I am the queen of butterflies,” Sophia says.

“You can’t be a queen. You’re not old enough. I’m six.”

“I am the queen of butterflies,” Sophia repeats.

“But I am the queen of the

butterflies that live in magic fairy

land,” Isabella says.

“Mommy, Isabella says

she’s the queen of the butterflies

in fairy land, but I’m the queen of

the butterflies.” Sophia’s eyes are big with tears. I rub her back.

“I am the queen of butterflies and the magic fairies and all

princesses forever!”

Sophia wails and buries her face in my chest. At the table

behind ours, four pregnant women glare and whisper, all swollen

and uncomfortable-looking in their pseudo-sexy, maternity-issue

tight skirt suits and heels. Adrienne sucks back her wine and is

oblivious. She doesn’t believe that there is anywhere she shouldn’t be

able to bring her kids. She wrote a guest-editorial for the newspaper

about this once and got hate mail.

“I am the queen, I am the queen, I am the queen,” Isabella

chants. “I am the queen, I am the queen.”

“But I am the queen of butterflies. Mommy, tell her.”

“I am the queen, I am the queen of butterflies and fairies and

everything in the world,” Isabella continues.

“That’s stupid,” Trey says. He takes a sip of coffee and stands

up on the seat of the booth just as the waitress starts to place our

food in front of us. He raises his hands above his head. “I am the

king of money!”

There’s only silence and singing cell phones until Adrienne

laughs and the men at the next table start to clap and then the whole

room is laughing and applauding

and Trey is punching the air in

triumph. The man I’m sure is

named Matthew passes our table

and winks. Someone takes a

picture with a cell phone. A man I

know through Randall who’s the president of an oil and gas

investment firm sends Trey his business card with a piece of

chocolate ganache.

I gulp my wine and look at the steak and salad, untouched, on

plates in front of Doll Isabella and Doll Sophia. I ask the waitress to

package them up. I have to go. Sophia and Isabella are bouncing

happily on the springy seats of the booth, basking in the attention

our table is getting, their power struggle forgotten. I feel sick.

Everything suddenly seems wrong.

“We have to go,” I say to Sophia. Adrienne looks puzzled. I

can’t meet her eye. “We have to go.” I grab the bag with the

“I am the princess of butterflies,” Sophia says. She’s five and the princess of butterflies is a wonderful thing to be.

containers of uneaten steak and salad with one hand and Sophia’s

arm with the other. She starts to cry. I let go and fumble through my

handbag until I find a fun-size box of Smarties. She grabs for them

and the crying stops. “We have to go, Sophia. Now get your doll.”

“She’s not a doll, she’s Sophia.” The tears return.

My head spins. I’m sweaty and light-headed. I find a miniature

Kit-Kat in the bottom of my bag and give it to her. “No, she’s a doll,

and you’re Sophia.”

“But we’re twins.”

I know there’s a tiny Aero bar somewhere in my purse. I find it

and hold it up to her face. She sniffles and snatches it away from me.

“Fine. You’re twins. We have to go.”

We step out onto the pedestrian mall and are pulled into the

traffic of people rushing in and out of office towers. Randall is here

somewhere, in one of these buildings on a very high floor, wearing a

Paul Smith suit and trolling the web for vacation property between

phone calls and meetings and insisting that people call him Randy

because he grew up on a farm.

Sophia plays a game as we walk, counting the bright pink bags

in shoppers’ hands. “Thirteen. Fifteen. Sixteen….”

We wait at the corner for the light to change and a homeless

man approaches and asks me for money. Sophia hides behind me. “I

don’t carry cash,” I say and this is true — it’s credit and debit,

the|occasional cheque. “I’m sorry,” I say and this is also true. “But

there’s this steak – and a salad,” I offer, holding up the bag with dolls’

uneaten lunch.

The light changes and Sophia watches from behind my legs.

The man squats down and puts his hands over his eyes, “Peek-a-

boo!” he says. Sophia shrieks and giggles. I push the bag of food in

the man’s face and lift Sophia and her doll into my arms and we dash

into the intersection.

We spin through the revolving door and into Sears. I set Sophia

on her feet. I am out of breath and embarrassed about the way I ran

across the street; I’m embarrassed that I regularly order food for a

doll and that Sophia is already five and knows nothing about

anything. She tugs at my sleeve. “Look, Mommy — underwear,” she

says with a laugh, “for boys.”

“Yes, Sophia. Underwear for boys.” I scan the list of

departments and floors. Kids clothes and toys on three.

Sophia darts in and out of racks of clothes marked down and

then marked down again for a special sale that involves a scratch

card. Sophia wants a puffy yellow-and-white dress that’s surely Easter

clearance and definitely polyester. It’s ugly but I buy it anyway, and

one for her doll. The clerk hands me a scratch card and I get another

ten percent off the last marked price. I am relieved. This is better. This

is good for me, and it’s good for Sophia. She needs to learn about

money and scratch cards and sales.

“Anna! Mommy, it’s Anna!” Sophia breaks away from me and runs

toward her kindergarten friend, who’s dragging a big pink bag behind

her up the brightly lit concourse of the shopping centre.

Anna’s mother Patricia smiles at me. The plastic of the Sears

bag is making my hand sweat, so I readjust my grip. The bag is loud

~

~

and crinkly and Patricia notices it at once. “Just some play clothes for

the dress-up box,” I say.

“Ah,” is all Patricia says.

Moments after Patricia and Anna are gone, I pay for two $200

sweaters – one for Sophia, one for her doll — and bury the crinkly

Sears bag beneath them in the big pink bag with handles, the one

made of heavy paper and emblazoned with the store’s tasteful logo.

We hold hands as we walk up the pedestrian mall; it’s a good

time to talk. “Sophia, do you remember that man from before, the

one who asked if Mommy could give him some money.”

Sophia nods and looks up. “Are those things gonna smash each

other?” In the sky, three cranes are moving simultaneously.

“No, honey. But you remember that man, right?”

“I think they will, Mommy – they’re gonna smash.”

It is not time to talk about cranes. “Do you remember when

Mommy gave that man the food your doll and Isabella’s doll didn’t

eat at the restaurant?”

“No. They’ll eat it later. They weren’t hungry yet.”

“But sweetheart, I gave it to that man. He was hungry. He

doesn’t get to go to nice restaurants and stores like you do. You

always have to remember that you’re very lucky to live in a nice house

and have nice things and lots of nice food. Some people don’t even

have houses to live in at all. Giving him the dolls’ lunch was nice.”

“It’s not nice to Sophia! She could go starving and die. She

hates you!” She tries to release my grip on her hand, but I told it

tighter. “Ow! You’re hurting me! Mommy!” Sophia bursts into

full-fledged sobbing and people stare as I drag her screaming toward

the parkade.

All I can smell is exhaust – and oil. A woman gets out of the

car parked beside our SUV and her eyes follow the trail of oil trickling

from under it. It’s been leaking for days but I haven’t had time to take

it in. The woman wrinkles her nose – maybe at the oil, but just as

likely at Sophia, whose face is red and blotchy from crying. I want to

tell the woman that Randall has us on the waiting list for a hybrid

and that Sophia is always — usually — very happy, but she’s on her

cell and it would be rude to interrupt.

I shake the sweaters and the Sears dresses out of the pink bag

and start refilling it with CDs, DVDs, my iPod and one of Randall’s. I

drop in a short stack of magazines that were destined for recycling –

US Weekly, Lucky, Harper’s Bazaar, a couple of complementary

issues of Time I didn’t read. I find drink boxes, packages of Disney

Princess gummies, countless tiny chocolate bars, stray plastic

dinosaurs Randall is forever encouraging Sophia to play with and

warm cheese strings. There’s moisturizer from Kiehl’s, Chanel lipstick

and an unopened gift-with-purchase bag from Clinique that Randall’s

mother gave me at Christmas. It all goes into the bag. And there’s the

dry cleaning: two Paul Smith suits, embellished Cavalli jeans, a

plain-looking Max Mara cashmere coat and a dress I know I’ll never

wear again. I drape the bag over my arm. The cushioned wire hangers

hit my knees when I walk.

Sophia stops whimpering and starts whining once we’re back

outside. I look in both directions, unsure of which way to go. I see a

~

~

promo sign for a skyscraper that’s currently nothing more than a

giant hole: Live, Work, Feel Downtown. There’s an alley beyond the

high chain-link fence that encloses the pit.

Sophia covers one ear with her hand, the other with a hand of

her My Twinn doll as we walk past the noisy construction site.

Ahead, I see someone — a man with a shopping cart. He’s wearing a

green army jacket and is facing the wall, relieving himself. Gravel and

dirt soak up the urine.

“Mommy! I can see his wiener! I can see his wiener!” Sophia

squeals, sounding more astonished than scared. She covers the eyes of

her doll but stares as the man zips up and starts walking away from

us. He has a beard and filthy hands. The shopping cart rattles as he

pushes it through the unpaved alley.

“No, wait!”

The man turns around. I grab Sophia’s hand and rush to catch

up, trying not to think of what the rocks and chips of concrete are

doing to my shoes. “I don’t carry cash,” I say and the man looks

confused. I hand him the pink bag and the dry cleaning. “So, here.”

I’m always telling Randall we need to give more.

The man pulls a Barbie Fairytopia DVD from the bag and

laughs. “Okay, lady. Whatever you say.”

“I don’t like that one anymore,” Sophia says. “It’s boring.”

My face is hot and my hands shake. The man turns to go. “It’s

just – I want to help.”

“Of course you do,” he says.

I want him to say thank you. He’s supposed to say thank you.

“Like I said, I just don’t ever carry cash anymore, so I thought—”

“Are you going to pee again?” Sophia asks.

The man laughs again. “Not right now, princess.”

“I am the princess of butterflies,” Sophia says.

“Of course you are,” he says and pushes off without another word.

Photo by Pamela Klaffke

Pamela Klaffke was a founding editor of Calgary’s alternative weekly, Fast Forward, & has been associate editor at Avenue magazine. She worked as the pop culture trends columnist for the Calgary Herald and was the paper’s literary editor for four years. Her first book, Spree: A Cultural History of Shopping, was published in North America in 2003, in the UK and Australia in 2004, and in china 2006. Her novel, Satin Rules, will be published my Mira Books in 2010. A film adaptation is currently in development. In addition to writing, Pamela works as a photographer, shooting unconventional portraits and unusual places with analogue cameras using expired film.

Walking along the Ganges River, in the sleepy yellow sun of winter. A kid ran past me, like a wind, chased by the ghostly dust cloud behind him. In my hand, Half A Life, V. S. Naipaul, from the gloomy corner of a bookshop of the day before. The book had an unusual smell, as if it had enveloped the scent of this country. I leafed through the pages, as people leafed through me. In the exchange of glances, in this random moment of time, we entered each other's lives and exited unawarely.

Zichuan Lian, Santa Barbara, USA WWW. L I T T L E V A N I T I E S .COM

climate change

beautiful women learn not to speak of it the way the climate changes when they enter the room the way men square their shoulders like mountains favored by the sun and rivals glower grey like lower slopes threatened by rain beautiful women learn not to speak of it the breeze they stir as doors open eyes lift beautiful women learn not to speak of it not of this and then not of the moment (time's motion incorruptible) when she enters and leaves the room unchanged Written on the 88th birthday of the author’s grandmother.

summer night

brief burning embers flicked from a cigarette, these fireflies in june

Dayna Bateman Chicago, USA

WWW. S U T T O N H O O . BLOGSPOT

.COM

MEDIUMS: Acrylic, spray paint, ink, pencil & staples on A1 (23.4 × 33.1) mount board.

Alan Campbell, Glasgow, Scotland WWW. FLICKR.COM / R E D _ J E S U S

love ? Control terminal

your train terminates in the dark terminal —just then you realize as you see the woman in front of you this is not the station you want to get off

Ian Ernzer, San Francisco, USA WWW. I A N E R N Z E R . BLOGSPOT.COM

Ian Ernzer recently graduated from San Francisco State University, where he served as poetry editor on Transfer, the school’s literary journal.

Excerpt from a book of poetry & photographs from the travels of Ian Ernzer

Edward Olive, Madrid, Spain WWW. E D W A R D O L I V E .NET

The following images are found 35mm slides which I projected and rephotographed off my bedroom wall in late 2007. Remarkably, these slides were salvaged from the trash, which is sad but not that uncommon these days - I've since found a couple more carousels of vintage slides in a local thrift shop. More surprising was the sheer amount of slides (easily a few hundred) and that most were pretty amazing, although apparently not enough to have held any value for their original owners.

I can only assume a lot of the people in these images are no longer alive, though determining the date of these slides is difficult. Early sixties seems to be the best estimate, judging by the fashions and decor. But time moves slowly in rural Saskatchewan (where most of the photographs seem to have been taken) resulting in a kind of "style lag." Conceivably then, some of the images that look very fifties could actually be from the early seventies. All we can safely say is that they are old.

For this issue of Ahhhhh, I've curated a small group from the collection, opting for a broad survey rather than focusing on one theme or subject. More images from this series can be found at my FLICKR page in the slides set.

Jason Cawood, Regina, Canada WWW. FLICKR.COM / J A S O N C A W O O D

FOUND & LOST FOREVER

FOUND & LOST FOREVER: 35MM SLIDES

FOUND & LOST FOREVER: 35MM SLIDES

FOUND & LOST FOREVER: 35MM SLIDES

FOUND & LOST FOREVER: 35MM SLIDES

FOUND & LOST FOREVER: 35MM SLIDES

FOUND & LOST FOREVER: 35MM SLIDES

FOUND & LOST FOREVER: 35MM SLIDES

FOUND & LOST FOREVER: 35MM SLIDES

FOUND & LOST FOREVER: 35MM SLIDES

FOUND & LOST FOREVER: 35MM SLIDES