is it enough to just be a Diarist? especially in the most encompassing sense of the word? is it okay to only want to scribble? and make sweaters? and paint my fingernails and my toenails? and paint portraits sometimes? sometimes draw, sometimes not? and read filthy, highbrow erotica like Georges Bataille and Anais Nin? is it enough that this is my week? and that this week is my life? and studying German, learning a new group of words and sounds? is it okay to sit quietly and not move my pen for 15 minutes at a time some mornings? is it okay to want to smell exceptionally good? is it enough to let my life be about these things? at least for now?

words

yesterday was grey and cold. the rain came and went, came and went. all day all day all day. most people stayed hidden away in there houses or cars and so the gallery was all mine. this is our last week in the beautiful space at 890 Valencia. only a few days left to languish, to wonder, to relish. i sat in freya's antique armchair and worked on the sweater i'm crocheting. i brought bread, bananas, honey, and tea with me. i made myself Elvis' favorite sandwich for lunch and drank large mugs of english breakfast tea all day. i read passages of George Bataille's 'The Impossible' out loud, listened to his words pouring out of my mouth, a woman's mouth, tasted them, watched them change... how much more physical (erotic? disturbing? vile?) the writing is when a woman is speaking it.

on page 39 in The Story of Rats, he writes:



( ...I write the way a child cries: a child slowly relinquishes the reasons he has for being in tears).




i live on the other side of the tracks of that statement. not at all like a child keeping her secrets close. at least not lately. not in my journal. not in the strange, pain filled prose i've been spending so much time with lately. i embarrass myself, say too much, say it sloppy and wrong and ugly, say it without any concern for eloquence or winning an outside love... in writing i do not cry like a child, i cry like a woman who can no longer grin and bare it, no longer accept the unacceptable, overrun by sorrow and anger. a woman who must rip herself in two so that the world that has built up inside her comes rushing out, painfully and fantastic and unexpected. kate describes this as Vomit and i like that. i love the way she thinks about writing. i love the way she does it. i love the way she offers herself, not at all like the secretive child Bataille's character describes himself to be, but Other. not corralled. not reigned in. sharp edged. corners to bang your hip against, slice your cheek on. writing that throttles both writer and reader. rebecca achieves this too. oh, the gorgeous, talented, searingly intelligent women i know! i read their books and i scribble in my notebook and curl up in the huge quilt that Art sometimes is and i live with all these words.

words make the world. they absolutely do. a world builds up inside me and i feel the urge to rip myself in half and let it all come rushing out. i feel like the passed 2 weeks have been the first "real" writing i've done in at least 2 months. and i am underground with it. spilling, spilling, spilling. i have no clue what kind of writing it even is.



every day, i am someone different.

ich bin ruhig.
ich bin nicht ruhig.
ich bin nicht traurig.
ich bin traurig.

.





.

the king of limbs

.





.

mourning good morning

and last night, that big ol' yellow moon. did you see it? it infected me. made me feel less alone than i have in weeks.

it's amazing how specific life is sometimes. how specific and how tragic. as i drove home last night i realized (again) that there is no right answer, no wrong answer, just was IS. the world was destroyed and all the bits of it hang in the air. nothing has landed. just trash in space. i float. i collide.



i am listening to Lykke Li's new album this morning.

love LONG!

.




LONG clothing


i'm absolutely in love with this company. i can't wait for payday!!! and gifts will not be turned away. hahahaha! :D seriously, go get you some!

:)

.





.

anger

yesterday in the rain, a run-in with a stranger. an unhinged woman far older than i decided to verbally threaten me. i raised my voice in turn. she hustled off, lost in whatever fanaticism her mind resides in. i should've just shined her on and said "ookey dokey", made her feel like an asshole. or worse, stupid. but the fact a stranger decided it was okay to threaten me caused this amazing surge of violent anger to course through me instantly. instantly. i had been writing about my mom's death in my notebook when this poor soul decided to interrupt my poetics with her utter bullshit. and the fact that nothing came of it is completely beside the point. so i raised my voice at a stranger? and a jerky one at that. big deal. it's the surge of anger that has caught me off guard. i have never felt this particular breed of anger before. i actually envisioned myself grabbing this woman by her hair, yanking her head back, and screaming in her face I DON'T CARE ABOUT A FUCKING THING, YOU DUMB CUNT! MY MOTHER'S FUCKING DEAD! WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE! which is not exactly the case but very close to it... i care about relatively little these days. i have been uncommonly stoic the passed few weeks ever since my mom made an appearance in one of my dreams. i ran to her and held her bony frame to me. i held on to her so tightly and she said "Angela, it's okay. I'm still here." and this huge fearful anger rose up inside of me. i didn't say anything but thought "they told me you were dead. they told me you were dead and i believed them. i am so mind-fucked, mama." and then the horror of waking and my first thought being, "no, mama, you aren't still here." ever since that dream i have been in a state of cold anger but not even a ripple of it has shown itself on the surface of my life until now. i have managed to keep it entirely still.

i care about art, words, friendship... nail polish and lipstick and that's really it. i don't care about success, failure, the rules, whatever. have it. take it. i don't give a shit. the state of shock that has insulated me up until now, allowing me to proceed gracefully through the day, giving no hint to the painful actuality of my inner world is melting away. a new form begins to show below this waxy shell. a new girl. i stay up late to listen to music and paint my fingernails silver. i stay up late scribbling and scribbling and scribbling and then wake up early to do it all over again. i don't want to waste any time. i go to class. i pay close attention. i work hard. it has never been so important to me to use every second to its full potential. i can't even tell you how i'm doing. i don't know. i'm not good. i'm not bad. i am in the middle of a race.

.





.

punish me

.



.

.





.

in case you couldn't make it...

red roses, information

tonight is the opening of Literati at Slingshot. it is our last show in the beautiful venue at 890 Valencia. yep. our time there is coming to a close but i can't tell you how lucky we are to have had it for the passed 3 months. if you've been inside the space, you know how lucky we are. it is that gorgeous. but if you've never been and you're in the area, i highly encourage you to come out tonight. music, wine, art, ME. hahahaha! if you need more reason than that, show up and i'll give you a few more. ;)

also, we decided to leave my installation Worry Roses (for my mother, for myself) up. freya said she wanted it to have more time, every moment possible, to be seen and considered. especially in such a beautiful space. as a result, i decided to be brave and go ahead and "show" the new piece for my mom. the red roses. i say "show" because it isn't completely finished yet. i will be constructing the piece on site. you will be able to watch this bed, this garden, this head stone, be built and shaped. it's important to me to get this piece made quickly. there is something deep down that calls for its existence. i must make it. i must make it for her. and it's a risk to put such a personal narrative in public, especially one that is so current, one that is still being lived through, but i feel it necessary to open the door to that discussions. i know i am not unique in this. this story is happening in other people's lives too. we need a place to be. so few places feel right. i will build this site for all who need it.

<3

(music saves and breaks me)

.




.

accuracy is scarce

.





i feel it almost all the time. a bare bulb flickering against the dark ceiling. a Beginning. a Preparation. music finds me. i get lost. swept away. away away away. i move through the world while i am deep in my day-dream. roz told me a story. i am trying to gather my steam.

what is this place and who am i when i'm here?

shall i tip-toe back in to this room?

this quiet confessional, all text and light? beaming beaming.

throwing words. tears. longing. sorrow. my sad vomit. so sad i vomit. has that ever happened to you? have you been so sad that your body rebels against you?

my mother's death has sped life up in certain ways. slowed it down in others. the world is an entirely different place now.

i was driving in the dark winding roads back home from work one night and suddenly i said to my self, out loud, "her death is going to impact my life in ways i can't even begin to imagine and it is going to go on like that for years." this is a fact. this is one of the few truths i know and i'm not sad about it. i don't ever want this to stop hurting. i want it to hurt forever. i'll find a way to let it polish me.

there is too much to catalogue. all that has happened. all that is still happening. all that will continue to happen...

for months, i've been recoiling from using this space in certain ways. i needed it to become more artistic, more invested in blogging as a particular form of writing like fiction or poetry. roz thinks it could be Performance. i like that idea. but it remains that i have no clue what i need this space to be anymore. i have no clue about of a lot of things these days.

i'm taking german and pottery at my local community college. i spend a lot of time listening to Rammstein and Bauhaus and Patti Smith, deciding on some level to go ahead and let the goth-girl in me flourish for awhile. let her have her say. my dear friend sent me a tube of bright red lipstick. i've only had the guts to wear it outside once. i think i need to go blonde. and every chance i get, i read Anais Nin's Diary. i'm on volume 2. i see myself in her pages. i know that world. i know those longings. i know those struggles. i can catch a glimpse of the girl behind my reflection... the one who is trying to wake up, trying to talk, trying to Become... if only the outside expectations would stop choking her out. if only i were strong enough to bar them from my life and heart.

but it's safe to say that, with each day that passes, i give less and less of a fuck what people think of me or who they would like me to be... the performance they want, the image they prefer. Lea, Freya, and i talked about feminism while we installed the new show. Lea said "some stories need to continue to be told and i take it as a personal duty to tell them". this made my heart jump and shiver. it made me feel thankful.

this is post 971. i will get to 1000 before i make any decisions about this space. i will let this space twist up on itself, writhe around on the floor, fight to become whatever it is that it needs to become. or else i will kill it. we'll see what we see. but there are no more rules. there are no more requirements about how often i post or what i post. i believe words can work magic. i will be patient, for 30 more posts anyway, and see what finds me.

also...

today is world cancer day. i love you. take a 30 minute walk. :)

YO!

.





For Immediate Release
Slingshot: Launa Bacon, Lea Feinstein, Freya Prowe , Angela Simione

What………Group exhibition: Literati
When………Feb. 10 through early March
Reception….Thursday, Feb.10th, 6-9pm
Location……Slingshot Gallery, 890 Valencia St., San Francisco, CA
Hours………Thurs -Fri 12-5pm, Sat-Sun 1-6pm
Contact……Freya Prowe: freya@freyaprowe.com, 323.350.1042

Whether taking the shape of a poem, fairy tale, diary entry, grocery list, or miscellaneous receipt, text fuels the tempo of life and identity. It establishes the contour and texture of a day. Language, in its many forms and functions, creates and re-creates reality. It is through words that the world is made.

Whether building poems from spatters of coffee, building zoos of dark fantasy from children's tales, or finding a reflection of one's identity in the life story of a writer, the artwork in Literati offers a map of how text expands our loves, fears, ideas, desires, and philosophies. The artists in this exhibition, great lovers of books and language, pay personal homage to the power of the written word.

Launa Bacon’s work is middlebrow, low-def and “creepy.” Her work is often an examination of the narratives that shape female identity.

Lea Feinstein’s performance and installation work incorporates narratives drawn from nursery rhymes, fairy tales, and other “domestic” sources. She also creates mixed media art books which include her personal narratives.

Freya Prowe’s work is lyrical, dark and draws upon the tradition of European fairy tales of her childhood. Prowe creates images that playfully prey upon the duality inherent in human interactions.

Angela Simione uses the methods of erasure to create her own "redacted" documents, making metaphors for the experiences of loss. Simione presents fragments, tiny bits of evidence, allusions to a lost history.



image:
Dutiful (1 & 2)
44" x 30" each
graphite on attached paper
angela simione, 2010

now

i have learned too early maybe how short life is. i am afraid of the brevity. i want to be an old woman in my bed. i do not want to be cut short. i am afraid of being cut short. i want the death (and life) of Louise Bourgeois- 98 years old, warm in my bed after a day of work in the studio, spitting images and loves at the world all the way up to the end. i want to work with that fire. i want to be a slave for decades to it.

everything is memento mori to me now. i am making myself a sweater with a skull on it. i never really cared for skulls as an image much before but now i am strangely attracted to them. i think of vanitas, our eye-blink existence, and want to claim every single shred of joy and sweetness i can. especially those bits found inside the swivel of sorrow. they are the most nourishing, the most poignant and necessary.



my sweater doesn't look like this but maybe i will attempt to make something along these lines as well. i love it.

come see me at slingshot today if you're around and we'll talk about art. or we can crochet together. i'll be sitting in the huge window at 890 valencia in san francisco.

heart

.





anais nin's first name is angela. this comforts me to no end.


i am glad it is february. one of my favorite days is only two weeks away. :)