these texts are an archive of my life in the San Francisco Bay Area from march 2007 - march 2015. it stands as a record of close to a decade of my life, charting the struggles i faced as an artist, daughter, and lover. messy and chaotic at times, eloquent and poetic at others, these texts are an index i am proud of. it was here in this electric box that i learned how to be honest about my experiences and the person i needed to become. it was here that i first learned the truism that words make the world and how to trust such a beautiful, rife, hard fact.

thank you for meeting me here in such tall grass.

my artist website is here.

Oct 16, 2012

i want to fuck your brains out

circles of water on the floor next to the bed.  my glass gladly cries as i listen to the song in the post below:

my sweating Greyhound. 

i haven't been home in three days.  off on some sort of adventure through suburbia.  these things come out of nowhere and who am i to say NO?

unexpected and totally welcome, i didn't have these adventures when i lived in a suburb.  i was wound up way too tight for that.  or maybe i had snooty standards?  or maybe i just had the correct reading on life in the suburbs and knew those aristocrats cannot be trusted.  i mean no offense, y'all just believe in too false a God.  i must breathe more honestly than what your picket fences allow.  i'm grown enough to know that human beings are a strange, strange species and there are no easy explanations for anything.  we are (i am) driven by a need to find some sort of comfort after enduring such a steep and horriffic sadness...  and we tend to find said comfort in the glass confines of an illicit bottle if denied the soft mouth of another.  and so, i learned the hard way, again, that drinking an entire bottle of Korbel bought from a Wallgreens at 1:45am will, if drunk by a single individual (me) (even if over the course of several hours), result in such a tormented stomach that the act of eating itself becomes the most torturous experience there is... even days later.  the only sparkling wine one should drink should be the real thing: champagne.  at least then the resulting horror story might possess an air of romance (though, if i may remind you, i am never without romance.  i am a romantic human being and i know how to create romance wherever i go.  if you are ever in doubt as to how one accomplishes romance i have two words for you: back scratch.  simply scratch the back of whomever you are with, especially if it is a friend, and you have abolished all trashiness from the current situation.  trust. ).  and so tonight, on a ravaged stomach, i made myself a Szechuan dinner and it was the first thing i've really eaten in days   ( ...should i really be telling you this?).

still, we breathed at each other's mouths.  we panted at the open wish. we stared at each other, point blank, and he asked me if i was an atheist.  i said i didn't know.  i confessed to him that i had once been thoroughly convinced that there was a God (for my entire life) but, when watching my mother die, He died as well, right before my eyes.  he ate a bag of chocolate malt balls and i listened to his ideas about humanity.  as i poured another damned glass of Korbel we discussed mortality and i pulled the shoes and socks off his feet.  we sat across from each other in deep hotel armchairs and i massaged his feet like a Christ.

i loved listening to him.  he had such a slow, lovely southern drawl.

these are the strange rooms i sometimes am lucky enough to stumble in to.  i am granted the honor and pleasure of witnessing the humanity of another.  i learn.  and then i come home and pull off my worn clothes, i listen to The Smashing Pumpkins and think of a bed in New York, blues guitar and the delirious dreams that followed on the echo of those plucked strings... 

and i am left wondering what the hell the world is trying to teach me.



Radish King said...

eat it all up darling. this is smashing good writing. keep going keep having adventures never give them up. I love you.

angela simione said...

my love, thank you! i spend more time writing than on any other art these days. it has its hooks in deep! my diary swells unbelievably each morning.

your encouragement is such a balm. i'm back, again, to that place where writers worry about offending their own family or disappointing/hurting people... but what family do i truly have to offend? and who should it hurt? it shouldn't matter anyway. it's art. it must be done. your bravery encourages mine. every time, at every turn.

all my love!