.
i write about my mother a lot here. i suppose it's one of the only places where i feel i can. i don't feel guilty for bringing it up here, the subject of her death and death in general. i don't feel ashamed of my big emotions here. i can have them, loud and unruly behind the ineffectual whiteness of the screen. no one knows if i am crying or not. everyone can imagine whatever face they prefer for me to wear. or they can look away. many people have and i don't begrudge them for that. it's been 4 years. eventually, people want to hear about something else.
.
i just re-read that paragraph and feel that it is a half-truth. i often feel guilty about how much i write about my mother's death. the last several posts here are specifically about that and i'm sure the majority of posts i've made during the last 4 years since her death are about it too or at least reference it in someway. i look at my blog sometimes and back away from it because i don't want to be that girl who's droning on and on about her dead mama, about her broken heart, about the tragic twists of her life. but why not? why am i ashamed? this shame is, perhaps, the thing that has made blogging so hard in recent years. for awhile there i seemed to only manage the courage for it when i was drunk and disgusted with the world, drunk and disgusted with myself. and for a moment, even i was afraid of those outbursts. i started wondering if i'd fallen it to that weird literary alcoholism where one believes they can only write if they've had a few drinks. i'd read back over my posts the next afternoon and feel the knife of shame in my gut but i wouldn't erase any of it. i wanted to let it stand. i wanted to be brave enough to endure my shame. also (dangerously), i was attracted to being a bit of a mess, repulsive. i was at odds with so many things and i wanted to force the issue of my pain, my disappointment, my revulsion. i also thought the writing was simply that damn good. i was willing to scare relatives and friends and the mothers of friends that i was in the midst of a total breakdown. it wasn't the intention of the writing. not at all. but if it was the result, so be it. i was trying to say something true.
and maybe i was unravelling a bit too.
of course i was.
2008, graduated from college.
2008, decided to end my relationship with my father.
2008, moved to Calistoga and absolutely hated it.
2008 - 2009, explored the possibility that maybe i was bipolar simply due to the fact that i could not get along in my new surroundings. this was encouraged by my partner at the time.
2009, my mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
2010, her cancer metastasized.
2011, my mother died. i was 30 years old.
2011, left Calistoga and moved back to Oakland.
2012, left a 7 year relationship that had been sexless for the last 3.
there's a lot in there to fall apart about. of all those things, my mother's death is the only thing i've really written about. at first, her death just made everything else seem so small and irrelevant. it was the biggest, most obvious horror. maybe it was also the most acceptable thing to write about, despite the overwhelming public discomfort surrounding death. no one really writes about the trauma of sexual neglect. at least not in the first person. not that i've seen. and not from the female perspective of being denied touch and how wounding that is. i'd be very interested in reading a text about that if anyone knows of something. and i'm still afraid to write about certain things, despite just sharing that secret. i'm afraid i'm going to make some sort of horrible, unforgivable transgression if i write about a past relationship, if i write about my father, if i tell the truth of what really happened, if i tell the whole truth about my mother, her marriages, our family, our undoing, our pain. despite my bravery, i still sometimes feel stopped. i censor myself. i don't want to dump lemon juice on the wounds of others. one of my biggest fears is hurting other people- a fear that has derailed the lives and selves of so many people.
thankfully, the only member of my family that reads here with any regularity is my sister. at least that i'm aware of. all my relatives on my mother's side, curious about my life as an artist, stopped reading here once the drunken 3am posts took over as the norm. long gone are the days of beautiful paragraphs about running with my dog down highway 128, through orange and red leaves, squirrels lobbing acorns at us from the tall trees, the scent of the vineyard crush filling the air. so idyllic. at least if that's all anyone knows, and that was all anyone knew for a very long time about my daily life in calistoga. i never let on about what a tortured, ignored, untouched "housewife" i'd become. i was so ashamed of myself and the deterioration i'd allowed to happen to my own life, my own dreams. i was ashamed of finding myself in a scenario that so horribly resembled my mother's 2nd marriage: man on the couch watching tv, woman reading a book in the other room. i remember so clearly the night i drunkenly confessed the sin of my sexlessness to my friend, Anne, while puking in the toilet at a mutual friend's house after having gone out and had one too many greyhounds. at that point, i'd been single about 7 months and no longer felt a responsibility to shield my ex from judgement. the reality of what my previous life and relationship had been burned within me, an awful dirty secret. in that moment, my shame burst forth along with all the booze i'd consumed and whatever i'd eaten that day. unstoppable. the next afternoon, hungover and dazed by the night's events, i felt embarrassed but also free. someone knew. someone knew my dirty secret and they didn't sneer at me. she sympathized and rubbed my back. i looked at the crust of vomit on my sequin jacket, called myself "a mess", and went home and wrote about it in my diary.
.
there were more deaths than just my mother's.
there are more deaths than just the physical.
perhaps i did "act out".
perhaps i still act out.
i won't allow another death to occur where there should be only one.
i won't be another girl burning her papers on the back porch, afraid of their power to incriminate.
.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Mar 22, 2015
Feb 27, 2014
just to be asked...
sitting in my kitchen, annie lennox on the little boombox we keep on the counter by the window. everyone else is asleep. and my mind turns to a few nights ago when a man sat in the chair next to where i'm sitting now and asked me about my mother. this song was playing and i relayed the story of when i visited my mother for the first time in Tennessee. it was just after her 55th birthday and the chemo had really started to kick in. one evening, my stepfather made good on their deal to buzz her head once the drugs made her hair begin to fall out. they walked into the kitchen together and he sat her down on a stool, wrapped a white sheet around her thin shoulders just like a barber, and turned on his clippers. i walked away. i hid in the guest room. i told myself that, as an artist at least, i should witness this. i told myself that, as a woman, i should witness this pain, know this horror and keep the record. i walked down the hallway and crossed the living room. i stood for a few long, horrible seconds in the entry way to the kitchen. i saw my mother's head bent over like a school boy's, head shorn and bowed obediently. i can't tell you what happened in my heart then. i can't tell you. english doesn't have the words...
when she came out of the kitchen, she went straight to her bedroom and put on a men's white button-down shirt. then she went to the bathroom and put on dramatic eye make-up and lipstick. Yummy Plummy by maybelliene. her favorite. when she walked in to the living room and sat next to me on the couch and sighed, i said, "mama, you look like annie lennox!" she smiled wide and i wanted to cry but i smiled wide right back. i smiled wide and wanted her to just go on feeling beautiful and bold. i didn't want any standard to dissuade her- she WAS beautiful and for once in her life i wanted her to not argue with it. not even in the hands of cancer and the horror that it offers.
i told this story to a man in my kitchen the other evening and he might actually be the only man i've ever known to sit and listen to these things. this is an important happening. it flips my ideas all around. so few people have let me speak to them about my mother's death. even fewer have initiated that discussion. how can i explain how necessary it is to speak about this horror? i can't shake a person's shoulders hard enough. i can't cry loud enough. i can't scream and kick and beg enough. there is no language for it. there is only the moment that sweeps in so unexpectedly... an annie lennox song playing in the background, wine in the glass, an open ear, an open heart, a willingness to let another human being know they aren't sitting at the table alone, and that there are enough scars between the two of us to be able to look at each other squarely when she sings, "this kind of trouble's only just begun."
and then a breath...
and then she sings...
"i tell myself too many times 'why don't you ever learn to keep your big mouth shut?'"...
and my entire being shakes.
goddamn... the secrets i keep.
i feel so embarrassed sometimes. and so often, i wonder if i've said something wrong... done something wrong... maybe was just BORN wrong... inefficient or defective... made for a different world...
and i know none of that's true. it's the old training kicking in. the training which has me rushing to smile wide and proud and warm in those difficult moments... in those moments when i KNOW that's what the Other needs to see...
to be asked about her...
just to be asked is a tremendous thing.
and when she sings, "i don't think you know what i feel. i don't think you know what i feel. i don't think you know what i fear. you don't know what i fear."
i'm tired of having so many opportunities to say the same thing.
to be asked is a tremendous thing.
.
when she came out of the kitchen, she went straight to her bedroom and put on a men's white button-down shirt. then she went to the bathroom and put on dramatic eye make-up and lipstick. Yummy Plummy by maybelliene. her favorite. when she walked in to the living room and sat next to me on the couch and sighed, i said, "mama, you look like annie lennox!" she smiled wide and i wanted to cry but i smiled wide right back. i smiled wide and wanted her to just go on feeling beautiful and bold. i didn't want any standard to dissuade her- she WAS beautiful and for once in her life i wanted her to not argue with it. not even in the hands of cancer and the horror that it offers.
i told this story to a man in my kitchen the other evening and he might actually be the only man i've ever known to sit and listen to these things. this is an important happening. it flips my ideas all around. so few people have let me speak to them about my mother's death. even fewer have initiated that discussion. how can i explain how necessary it is to speak about this horror? i can't shake a person's shoulders hard enough. i can't cry loud enough. i can't scream and kick and beg enough. there is no language for it. there is only the moment that sweeps in so unexpectedly... an annie lennox song playing in the background, wine in the glass, an open ear, an open heart, a willingness to let another human being know they aren't sitting at the table alone, and that there are enough scars between the two of us to be able to look at each other squarely when she sings, "this kind of trouble's only just begun."
and then a breath...
and then she sings...
"i tell myself too many times 'why don't you ever learn to keep your big mouth shut?'"...
and my entire being shakes.
goddamn... the secrets i keep.
i feel so embarrassed sometimes. and so often, i wonder if i've said something wrong... done something wrong... maybe was just BORN wrong... inefficient or defective... made for a different world...
and i know none of that's true. it's the old training kicking in. the training which has me rushing to smile wide and proud and warm in those difficult moments... in those moments when i KNOW that's what the Other needs to see...
to be asked about her...
just to be asked is a tremendous thing.
and when she sings, "i don't think you know what i feel. i don't think you know what i feel. i don't think you know what i fear. you don't know what i fear."
i'm tired of having so many opportunities to say the same thing.
to be asked is a tremendous thing.
.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 2, 2014
YOLO
.
58th @ telegraph
oakland, CA 2014
walking home in the cold tonight through oakland, i came across a couch that had been abandonned on the side of the road and totally stripped of its skin. perfect canvas for an Ode to David Wojnarowicz. this is an action i've been taking for close to two years now. the text is taken from his essay THE SUICIDE OF A GUY WHO ONCE BUILT A SHRINE OVER A MOUSE HOLE which is one of the most affective, searing personal essays i've ever read. David Wojnarowicz is one of my most favorite artists. an instant beloved and i ache for his loss. the art and writing he left in his wake is beyond tremendous and i am inspired every day by his endless bravery and daring. he was in touch with his own mortality the way few people are and, fearlessly, the man created and loved and didn't apologize for either of those things. if you haven't read the essay, get your hands on it. get your hands on any/all of his work. because make no mistake: one day this is going to be YOU, friend. each and every last one of us is going to meet our end.
SMELL THE FLOWERS WHILE YOU CAN.
.
oakland, CA 2014
walking home in the cold tonight through oakland, i came across a couch that had been abandonned on the side of the road and totally stripped of its skin. perfect canvas for an Ode to David Wojnarowicz. this is an action i've been taking for close to two years now. the text is taken from his essay THE SUICIDE OF A GUY WHO ONCE BUILT A SHRINE OVER A MOUSE HOLE which is one of the most affective, searing personal essays i've ever read. David Wojnarowicz is one of my most favorite artists. an instant beloved and i ache for his loss. the art and writing he left in his wake is beyond tremendous and i am inspired every day by his endless bravery and daring. he was in touch with his own mortality the way few people are and, fearlessly, the man created and loved and didn't apologize for either of those things. if you haven't read the essay, get your hands on it. get your hands on any/all of his work. because make no mistake: one day this is going to be YOU, friend. each and every last one of us is going to meet our end.
SMELL THE FLOWERS WHILE YOU CAN.
.
Nov 18, 2013
i pretended to hold your hand
.
at the edge of the world with my jeans rolled to the knee, i thought of you as i walked along that cold, beautiful line of surf and sand. i looked out across the expanse of the pacific to where the water meets the sky and thought of Germany, thought of you; your young, bright self bouncing across cobblestone and drinking beer. i played the morrissey song "everyday is like sunday" over and over again as i walked from the pier to the cliffs. i smiled against the wind and thought, "where'd you get off to, woman? you should be here."
and then a week later, a box arrives at my front door. i look at the return address and see its from my ex-stepfather. i push the box against the wall in the kitchen and walk away. i knew what the box contained... something i've been waiting for for well over a year, something i cried over the last time i held it in my hands the day after you died: the photo album of your high school graduation, mama, your days as a young GI in Hannover, and the early days of your marriage to my father.
i went to my room with a cup of coffee and wrote for awhile but the gravity of your arrival pulled me back to the kitchen. i grabbed a knife out of the drawer and cut the packing tape in a clean, careful slice. i needed to know if this treasure had truly arrived, if i'd finally received something i've been waiting for for so long. i folded back the edge of the cardboard box and brushed away foam peanuts to find your painting and another small box. i lifted the small box out, set it on the kitchen table, and looked inside.
i couldn't look for long before i felt the sting of tears in my eyes and throat. i bore the pain dryly, just long enough to photograph my treasure and to pay honor to the arrival of such a beloved and long-awaited piece of my disheveled family history.
young and fresh and beautiful at 19 years old, that's my mama on the lower right.
such a beauty.
where'd you get off to, woman? you should be here.
.
at the edge of the world with my jeans rolled to the knee, i thought of you as i walked along that cold, beautiful line of surf and sand. i looked out across the expanse of the pacific to where the water meets the sky and thought of Germany, thought of you; your young, bright self bouncing across cobblestone and drinking beer. i played the morrissey song "everyday is like sunday" over and over again as i walked from the pier to the cliffs. i smiled against the wind and thought, "where'd you get off to, woman? you should be here."
and then a week later, a box arrives at my front door. i look at the return address and see its from my ex-stepfather. i push the box against the wall in the kitchen and walk away. i knew what the box contained... something i've been waiting for for well over a year, something i cried over the last time i held it in my hands the day after you died: the photo album of your high school graduation, mama, your days as a young GI in Hannover, and the early days of your marriage to my father.
i went to my room with a cup of coffee and wrote for awhile but the gravity of your arrival pulled me back to the kitchen. i grabbed a knife out of the drawer and cut the packing tape in a clean, careful slice. i needed to know if this treasure had truly arrived, if i'd finally received something i've been waiting for for so long. i folded back the edge of the cardboard box and brushed away foam peanuts to find your painting and another small box. i lifted the small box out, set it on the kitchen table, and looked inside.
i couldn't look for long before i felt the sting of tears in my eyes and throat. i bore the pain dryly, just long enough to photograph my treasure and to pay honor to the arrival of such a beloved and long-awaited piece of my disheveled family history.
young and fresh and beautiful at 19 years old, that's my mama on the lower right.
such a beauty.
where'd you get off to, woman? you should be here.
.
Sep 23, 2013
Marc...
.
i want to call everyone i know and tell them i love them.
i miss you, Marc. it really fucking sucks that i didn't get to hug and kiss you one last time and listen to your stories. god, i've missed your voice. i've missed it for so long and now i will go on missing it.
i lit a Yahrzeit candle for him last night. the flame was so tall. it stayed that way all night, lighting up my room the way i would light up whenever i was in the same room with him. it made me happy to see such a tall flame on his candle. it suits him. it suits how i feel for him. what a bright light that man was. absolutely brilliant.
i love you.
in the early morning hours of saturday, september 21st, one of my greatest and most loved mentors died in southern california. my sweet, sweet Marc. he was 71 years old. i had no idea he was even sick. no one really did.
400+ miles away, i'm sitting in bed with a cocktail, finally free to cry after battling through a night of waiting tables where i wanted to cry every 20 minutes. i only went to work today in the hopes of getting out of my own head. i only went to work today to make Marc proud.
god, i loved that man. i really did. i do still. it doesn't matter how many years it's been since i last set foot in my home town, i still love the people i love and Marc was an enormous influence. i adored him from the second i heard him speak. i took my first class from him at the age of 18 and studied under him for 7 consecutive years. he taught me how to make a mark. a REAL mark. "make a bold mark early in a drawing," he said. "It doesn't matter if it ends up in the wrong place and needs to be erased; you've given yourself something to respond to and that's what art is all about." and as i write those words, i see it's a lesson that can be (needs to be) translated into all areas of life... especially now when everything feels so raw and so dire and so fucking lonely. i can't help but lend my voice to that tired refrain but it is absolutely true: when mike called and told me Marc had died, i felt like a light had gone out in the world.
i hung on that man's every word. i loved listening to him speak. he had such a great voice. so full of sensuality and humor and generosity. after i'd been taking classes from him for a few years, i caught myself one day thinking, "... if only he were 15 years younger". hahaha! and i fucking meant it too! his love of humanity and beauty was evident in the way he talked. the lilt of his speech betrayed what a lover he was and i loved him for it. in fact, i adored him to the point of anxiety. i don't know that i ever completely relaxed around him. i was so enamored of him and so impressed with him that it was hard for me to be entirely myself... i wanted him to like me too much. i wanted him to be pleased with me. i wanted to make him proud.
i was at fucking Forever 21 when my beloved friend Mike called and gave me the news. at first, it felt like a joke. there was no way this was real. after about 20 minutes had passed, i tasted tears in my throat and knew i needed to find a bit of privacy. i hung the clothes i was holding back on a rack and went outside. it was pouring rain. i ducked in to the alcove of a broken elevator and curled my self against the corner where two walls met, my back to the street, my face hidden from view. there, i cried as i listened to Mike tell me about his last moments with Marc. i pushed myself as far into the corner as i could go and covered my face with my hands.
i'm going to stay up late drawing tonight. it's the best thing i can do and the best way to honor Marc. i can make a bold mark once more and give myself something to respond to... a place to put the agony of my loneliness, the emptiness that charges forward with such brutality and callousness. i can carve out a space for beauty and resilience and love somewhere in between these tortures and roll around in the tall, black grass of his grace... a sliver of the generosity such a deeply affective mentor and friend bestowed to me.
i miss you, Marc. it really fucking sucks that i didn't get to hug and kiss you one last time and listen to your stories. god, i've missed your voice. i've missed it for so long and now i will go on missing it.
i lit a Yahrzeit candle for him last night. the flame was so tall. it stayed that way all night, lighting up my room the way i would light up whenever i was in the same room with him. it made me happy to see such a tall flame on his candle. it suits him. it suits how i feel for him. what a bright light that man was. absolutely brilliant.
i love you.
Aug 16, 2013
impotent dick
okay, okay... so i have a bit of a habit. me and my big black marker possess quite an affinity for abandoned furniture. i just can't help it. :)
in honor of David Wojnarowicz
58th Street Oakland, CA
August 15th, 2013
the flash blew out the black lines of the text but whatever. this isn't an art that cares about being pretty. in fact, prettiness is the least of its concerns. the uglier the better, actually. as human beings, we spend substantially more time discussing, dissecting, analysing, and assessing the "ugly" than we do the "beautiful". that's an observation i can use as a tool and my aching heart simply won't let me walk passed an opportunity to get a little ink out in the world.
i actually walked passed this loveseat and made it all the way to the next block before the hook got in, whipped me around, and lured me back. it's impossible to resist such a big, open canvas when i've got my Sharpie Magnum in my bag. :) especially after having sucked down a Corona after work and walked a mile from the train after waiting tables for 6 hours and all i can think of are the hands that aren't on my tits and the tongue that isn't in my mouth, my empty bed and my dead mother and how totally fucking angry me and my siblings are, how totally angry me and everyone else is. at least half the time. because at least half the time we all feel like we're caught in some sorta crazy shit that is spinning well beyond our control and IF we're not allowed to have control then let's get a little out of fucking control. why not? just once. just for a minute. let's see what it's like. let's see if it feels good. let's see if the house really burns down. let's call bullshit on the threats. let's see if the rules really exist or if its just impotent dick. because i learned the hard way what being "good" gets me. scraps just like any other begging dog and no closer to claiming a seat in any supposed heaven.
it isn't bitterness.
and so i sat down on the edge of this loveseat abandoned on the street and i searched and searched and searched for my big black marker in the crazy abyss of my big black bag. it took a while to root it out but i wasn't in a hurry. one of my favorite things about being a Grown Up is the fact that i'm allowed to be out at night. i love walking around my beloved oakland after midnight when everything is slow and dark and romantic. i love the way streetlamps make everything beautiful; lonely in that way that makes the tears sting... that unnamable heartache that lives within us all...
it isn't bitterness, it's heartache.
i take out my marker and i think of my mother. i think of all the things she wanted to do. i remember David Wojnarowicz and how adamant he was, how dedicated and in love with Art, how totally convinced he was that humanity matters and that we all have a right to live, not just march toward our End. i think of what a minimal effort it takes to simply REACH IN YOUR BAG AND GET YOUR PEN, GIRL and i write the words.
i write the words because words make the world. and i want to be in control of the world that i'm making for myself. i want to see myself sitting securely below the lamplight on a dark street after midnight writing the mantra of a dead artist on a dead loveseat. i want to see myself alive and moving, passionate and reaching toward the world. fuck it if i make a mistake. fuck it if the rules are real after all. i can't stand the thought of dying before i've actually managed to say something.
it isn't bitterness, it's heartache. it's the heartache born of realizing our time is too short and a day will never be longer than it is and later this week the loveseat will be hauled away to the dump where it will be hacked in to pieces by a man with a big bad axe. and that's exactly the point. one day, that's gonna be me too. and you.
.
58th Street Oakland, CA
August 15th, 2013
the flash blew out the black lines of the text but whatever. this isn't an art that cares about being pretty. in fact, prettiness is the least of its concerns. the uglier the better, actually. as human beings, we spend substantially more time discussing, dissecting, analysing, and assessing the "ugly" than we do the "beautiful". that's an observation i can use as a tool and my aching heart simply won't let me walk passed an opportunity to get a little ink out in the world.
i actually walked passed this loveseat and made it all the way to the next block before the hook got in, whipped me around, and lured me back. it's impossible to resist such a big, open canvas when i've got my Sharpie Magnum in my bag. :) especially after having sucked down a Corona after work and walked a mile from the train after waiting tables for 6 hours and all i can think of are the hands that aren't on my tits and the tongue that isn't in my mouth, my empty bed and my dead mother and how totally fucking angry me and my siblings are, how totally angry me and everyone else is. at least half the time. because at least half the time we all feel like we're caught in some sorta crazy shit that is spinning well beyond our control and IF we're not allowed to have control then let's get a little out of fucking control. why not? just once. just for a minute. let's see what it's like. let's see if it feels good. let's see if the house really burns down. let's call bullshit on the threats. let's see if the rules really exist or if its just impotent dick. because i learned the hard way what being "good" gets me. scraps just like any other begging dog and no closer to claiming a seat in any supposed heaven.
it isn't bitterness.
and so i sat down on the edge of this loveseat abandoned on the street and i searched and searched and searched for my big black marker in the crazy abyss of my big black bag. it took a while to root it out but i wasn't in a hurry. one of my favorite things about being a Grown Up is the fact that i'm allowed to be out at night. i love walking around my beloved oakland after midnight when everything is slow and dark and romantic. i love the way streetlamps make everything beautiful; lonely in that way that makes the tears sting... that unnamable heartache that lives within us all...
it isn't bitterness, it's heartache.
i take out my marker and i think of my mother. i think of all the things she wanted to do. i remember David Wojnarowicz and how adamant he was, how dedicated and in love with Art, how totally convinced he was that humanity matters and that we all have a right to live, not just march toward our End. i think of what a minimal effort it takes to simply REACH IN YOUR BAG AND GET YOUR PEN, GIRL and i write the words.
i write the words because words make the world. and i want to be in control of the world that i'm making for myself. i want to see myself sitting securely below the lamplight on a dark street after midnight writing the mantra of a dead artist on a dead loveseat. i want to see myself alive and moving, passionate and reaching toward the world. fuck it if i make a mistake. fuck it if the rules are real after all. i can't stand the thought of dying before i've actually managed to say something.
it isn't bitterness, it's heartache. it's the heartache born of realizing our time is too short and a day will never be longer than it is and later this week the loveseat will be hauled away to the dump where it will be hacked in to pieces by a man with a big bad axe. and that's exactly the point. one day, that's gonna be me too. and you.
.
Jun 18, 2013
so there
.
the entirety of any and all beauty i may contain or present is beholden to the fact that i am keenly aware of my own mortality and it is allowed to rest plainly upon my surface.
.
the entirety of any and all beauty i may contain or present is beholden to the fact that i am keenly aware of my own mortality and it is allowed to rest plainly upon my surface.
.
Jun 16, 2013
ghost love
i love being around people's mothers.
i love looking at pictures of people's mothers.
it's the closest i can come to looking at pictures of my own.
still, ma mere, the caught image of you sends me running.
i've learned how to keep a dry eye:
don't look at beautiful things
that pull the old heart strings
and which you'll never see again.
and so i bask in the smile of other people's mamas and feel absolutely real joy. i keep my own mother's image in my heart. especially when i look at the sky. i think of her when she was 19, walking cobblestone pathways in Germany, wearing her forest green velvet blazer. i can finally fit in to it. i wore it on thursday and thursday was the best day in the whole fucking world. :)
i love looking at pictures of people's mothers.
it's the closest i can come to looking at pictures of my own.
still, ma mere, the caught image of you sends me running.
i've learned how to keep a dry eye:
don't look at beautiful things
that pull the old heart strings
and which you'll never see again.
and so i bask in the smile of other people's mamas and feel absolutely real joy. i keep my own mother's image in my heart. especially when i look at the sky. i think of her when she was 19, walking cobblestone pathways in Germany, wearing her forest green velvet blazer. i can finally fit in to it. i wore it on thursday and thursday was the best day in the whole fucking world. :)
Jun 4, 2013
just the beginning
.
over a year in production, The Blanket of DOOM is finally finished. mostly. a few small tweaks here and there, a few loose yarn ends to be woven in to the grain of stitches, and a ton of photographs to take before i can legitimately refer to this project as Done. in fact, it could be quite some time before i see the end of this particular piece. the photo up top signals what i envision for The Blanket: a life prior to finding itself on display in a gallery. we'll see where we end up together. :)
but it is a happy moment to see her in all her good glory. so many long hours and evening spent hooking away at this piece. it is an expression of dedication and faith that, even if imperfect, the idea was a good one and to chase it to the end. there were plenty of times at the very beginning of this massive undertaking that i wanted to give up, unravel the entire thing, and focus on smaller projects. there were plenty of weeks when i didn't touch her at all. couldn't. even hated the idea of working on her. there were plenty of times when i dreaded the work that needed to be done. it seemed so endless. impossible.
when i finally reached the half-way mark, my hope and strength returned and i felt committed to seeing the project through to the end regardless of how it turned out. i no longer needed it to be any good and i just wanted to make the blanket for me. i began to see it as a landscape... a road... a way to learn something deeper about who i am and the type of artist and human i want to be. a poem to wrap myself in.
Lea had said to me once, "your work is so devotional." her voice came back to me so many times while i worked on The Blanket. what is Devotion? what is it to devote oneself to something? what does it require? it comes down to an unspeakable trust. i trust my work with all that i am and all that i've got. i entrusted my entire life and self to it a long time ago and haven't questioned it since. my road through this world might very well be different from others but it is a good one and my work has proven itself to be the very best map and guide.
the picture of me laying on top of the Blanket of DOOM was taken this morning in my kitchen. she takes up the entire floor. i'm 5'6". each letter in DIE is taller than i am. but the work has always been, and always will be, bigger than me and that has nothing to do with physical scale. :)
so happy i could DIE
crochet
kingsize blanket
angela simione, 2013
May 24, 2013
then suddenly, a moment. then suddenly, a means.
.
Because it's Oakland and because I'm feeling a bit poetic and because I just so happened to stumble across an abandoned mattress when I just so happened to have a magnum Sharpie in my bag. Because the world needs more words. Because the world needs more poetry. Because the world needs bravery. Because the world could benefit from the influence of a few more brave, poetic girls. Anddddd because I've been drinking tequila. ;)
.
Because it's Oakland and because I'm feeling a bit poetic and because I just so happened to stumble across an abandoned mattress when I just so happened to have a magnum Sharpie in my bag. Because the world needs more words. Because the world needs more poetry. Because the world needs bravery. Because the world could benefit from the influence of a few more brave, poetic girls. Anddddd because I've been drinking tequila. ;)
.
Dec 7, 2012
last night while walking home from the train i left some poetry on the street
.
each night, i die
text on abandonned mattress in Oakland, CA
angela simione, 2012
each night, i die
text on abandonned mattress in Oakland, CA
angela simione, 2012
Dec 5, 2012
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Sep 19, 2012
these kinds of questions:
.
the eager atrocity. a rancid hand jerking my tongue like a leash. i fixate on my face in the mirror. i think of my mother. the image of her big curls. was i really once someone's daughter? the hands that slapped my dirty face. the dirt found in my crevices. the crevice where i hid my diary. the pages they violated. the pages they mocked. was i ever really anyone's daughter? where is my father? he hates me like he hates my mother. my dead. my dusty womb. she blows away, out from the belly of the clock where she is kept. the horrible tick of minutes vibrating through her ash. the rhythm of my own eventuality clicking in the chalky grey of her remains. what of me? what of these lists? what of the hairs i leave accidentally in your rug? in my absence, they are there to cling to your elbow and catch on your cheek. a cobweb. in those moments, i know you will not love me. my dead parts wrapping around your wrists. my dead parts collecting in the bottom of your pockets. the bottom of your drain. was i really ever anybody's daughter? anyone's beloved scroll of pink?
.
the eager atrocity. a rancid hand jerking my tongue like a leash. i fixate on my face in the mirror. i think of my mother. the image of her big curls. was i really once someone's daughter? the hands that slapped my dirty face. the dirt found in my crevices. the crevice where i hid my diary. the pages they violated. the pages they mocked. was i ever really anyone's daughter? where is my father? he hates me like he hates my mother. my dead. my dusty womb. she blows away, out from the belly of the clock where she is kept. the horrible tick of minutes vibrating through her ash. the rhythm of my own eventuality clicking in the chalky grey of her remains. what of me? what of these lists? what of the hairs i leave accidentally in your rug? in my absence, they are there to cling to your elbow and catch on your cheek. a cobweb. in those moments, i know you will not love me. my dead parts wrapping around your wrists. my dead parts collecting in the bottom of your pockets. the bottom of your drain. was i really ever anybody's daughter? anyone's beloved scroll of pink?
.
Jul 31, 2012
can you see me now?
there are these sudden, unexpected moments when walking down the street that tears begin to sting inside my eyes. there are these sudden, unexpected moments when everything i'm made of wants to come out, wants to rip me in half. sometimes it happens on the train. maybe it is a certain quality of the light, a certain time of day. there are these sudden, unexpected moments of beauty and sudden, unexpected moments of tremendous sadness. in these moments i long to hear my mother's voice. but i have only my own. and i tell myself "don't cry, little girl. don't cry."
listening to pearl jam's "release" this evening for the first time in years, i want to cry. i am alone here in my white room. there is no one to hide from. and besides, i mastered the art of silent crying a long time ago. but i hold myself together. i pause the music. i look at my mother's face inside my memory and instantly look away. there are things i haven't yet learned how to look at without becoming a child again.
i know she would be proud of me. sometimes this knowledge makes such an unspeakable longing quake within me.
listening to pearl jam's "release" this evening for the first time in years, i want to cry. i am alone here in my white room. there is no one to hide from. and besides, i mastered the art of silent crying a long time ago. but i hold myself together. i pause the music. i look at my mother's face inside my memory and instantly look away. there are things i haven't yet learned how to look at without becoming a child again.
i know she would be proud of me. sometimes this knowledge makes such an unspeakable longing quake within me.
Jul 4, 2012
dying portraits
who cares. no apologies for art.
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,+digital+photograph,+angela+simione+2012.JPG)
dying portrait 1, 3, and 5
digital photograph
angela simione, 2012
Sep 23, 2011
sick girl
1. this is day 2 stuck at home. yesterday i was so exhausted i didn't do anything really but sleep and blow my nose. seriously. even walking down the hall to the bathroom exhausted me entirely. today, i have a bit more strength and am really hoping i'm over the worst of this, whatever this is. i have promised myself and others that i will show up for work tomorrow. my sinuses are so congested that i can't concentrate on reading or get any studying done. also, i am eating Popsicles like crazy. it is one of the few comforts i've found. that and looking at pictures of Katharina Fritsch's artwork. i want to runaway to germany and study under her. i'm serious. and maybe one day that could be a possibility. another year of german and i should be fluent enough to at least be able to find myself a meal and a roof. this grad school thing might need to happen sooner than later. i begin to feel the itch for serious critique and heavy theory and being immersed in art in a way that you just don't get many places outside of school. i want to hang out with other artists everyday and talk about art nerd stuff. i want to have all those conversations that other people roll their eyes over when eavesdropping. but before that, travel has become imperative. i've actually started putting money in my savings account.
2. repat says they all wanted to talk about death and i am no different. no different at all. last night i watched Little Women with winona ryder and susan sarandon and claire danes. and when the part came when beth (claire danes) was dying and she said "why does everyone always want to go away? i love being home. but i don't like being left behind... and now it is i who is going ahead", her eyes so full of tears in spite of her smile and she said "i can be brave too." i absolutely lost it. in my mind i saw my mom's face. the way she looked when i walked in to her room and the morphine was so heavy on her small frame. all i could she was her face and in my ear was this voice saying "now it is i who is going ahead".
i cried for a long time.
3. i found out my sweaters were accepted in to a show! yay!!! more about that in a few weeks when everything is official official but, for now, i'm happy to just ride high on this tide of support. that the sweaters are seen as ART by more people than just me and my friends is a wonderfully deep and meaningful encouragement. especially today as i feel so ill and defenseless, deflated, and weak. in so many ways it is an encouragement of who i am becoming... who i need to become and have been trying to become for awhile now. it is hard work following one's heart.
4.i read kate's blog and feel less alone.
2. repat says they all wanted to talk about death and i am no different. no different at all. last night i watched Little Women with winona ryder and susan sarandon and claire danes. and when the part came when beth (claire danes) was dying and she said "why does everyone always want to go away? i love being home. but i don't like being left behind... and now it is i who is going ahead", her eyes so full of tears in spite of her smile and she said "i can be brave too." i absolutely lost it. in my mind i saw my mom's face. the way she looked when i walked in to her room and the morphine was so heavy on her small frame. all i could she was her face and in my ear was this voice saying "now it is i who is going ahead".
i cried for a long time.
3. i found out my sweaters were accepted in to a show! yay!!! more about that in a few weeks when everything is official official but, for now, i'm happy to just ride high on this tide of support. that the sweaters are seen as ART by more people than just me and my friends is a wonderfully deep and meaningful encouragement. especially today as i feel so ill and defenseless, deflated, and weak. in so many ways it is an encouragement of who i am becoming... who i need to become and have been trying to become for awhile now. it is hard work following one's heart.
4.i read kate's blog and feel less alone.
Jun 27, 2011
not a contest.
stare at me. i'll stare at you. there's something to it.
THOU SHALT DIE
hand-crocheted sweater
angela simione, 2011
THOU SHALT DIE
hand-crocheted sweater
angela simione, 2011
Jun 20, 2011
Mar 18, 2011
recent fascination: skulls
.
human
10" x 10"
oil on canvas, 2011
(first oil painting of 2011)
sweater* and 5 foot tall human skull painting** (in progress)
*the sweater might look pretty familiar to the crocheters in the room. my first run at one of the projects in debbie stoller's The Happy Hooker. i'm working on my 2nd attempt now. amending the design, personalizing the fit, working out a prototype of my own. :) also, this is one of my New Year's Resolutions that has been satisfied: make a sweater. and i must say i am addicted. it's very happy-making even if the sweater is sorta screwy.
**that's my refrigerator it's leaning against just to give you a sense of scale. pretty big. pretty nice. one layer of paint so far but it's already a beauty.
human
10" x 10"
oil on canvas, 2011
(first oil painting of 2011)
sweater* and 5 foot tall human skull painting** (in progress)
*the sweater might look pretty familiar to the crocheters in the room. my first run at one of the projects in debbie stoller's The Happy Hooker. i'm working on my 2nd attempt now. amending the design, personalizing the fit, working out a prototype of my own. :) also, this is one of my New Year's Resolutions that has been satisfied: make a sweater. and i must say i am addicted. it's very happy-making even if the sweater is sorta screwy.
**that's my refrigerator it's leaning against just to give you a sense of scale. pretty big. pretty nice. one layer of paint so far but it's already a beauty.
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