i pulled on the shiny black pants i bought in new york. i pulled a sweater over my head that i made at the beginning of this year and have never worn. i stuck little pins in it. one that says R. MUTT and one that says I WILL CRUSH YOU. then, i went walking in the dark and in the cold. it lit up my lungs and skin. i feel a bit lighter in spite of myself, in spite of my arrogant pins.
i indulged in some much needed sweater-making time today. i sipped coffee and wrote. and last night after my last blog post i stayed up til 2am reading The Maids by Genet. i truly love that man's work. i love his ecstatic, passionate engagement with language. after i get further along in german, i'll dive in to french so that i can read his work in its original form. but The Maids... it is a dark, seething play. it spews the hatred that the poor of this earth often feel. it tells of the insanity that can grow from humiliation and degradation. it tells of the insanity that can grow from envy and subjugation. it tells of the insanity that two sisters can grow together if left alone together too long in too hard a world. it tells of the insanity we can encourage in each other when we stroke dangerous desires; the dire longing that reduces one to a state of abjection. or maybe it isn't insanity at all? i remember feeling the same way when i was very young and growing up poor. i remember feeling so much less than everyone else. my cousins and my classmates. our society encourages it. it's always been the case that we associate beauty with wealth. to be poor is to be ugly. to be poor is to be lazy and stupid. to be poor is to be lesser. or so the lesson goes. it took many years to root that lesson out. nevertheless, reading The Maids last night i could identify with that hard longing to be seen as an equal, to be valued for something more substantial than what clothes rest on my back. and the language of the play is absolutely stunning. cutting. Genet is as masterful at sarcasm as he is at poetics. i'm happy i stayed up late last night and read it. i'm happy i stayed up late last night and read! i plan to do the same tonight.
i went walking in the cold because i needed to buy a new notebook. one more notebook filled and one more to go (at least) before the end of the year finds me. i can't believe winter is already here. wasn't it just yesterday that i was braving these winds? did summer and fall already rush by? god, it's all been such a rush of image and breath and dance. such a flood of music and alcohol and laughter. i'm glad i took the time to write so much of it down.
i am so lucky to have crossed your path.
Showing posts with label i love writers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label i love writers. Show all posts
Nov 26, 2012
Oct 9, 2012
letter to a friend
dear KATE,
most of the time i'm not really sure what i'm doing. what The Work is and is not. it all feels like The Work to me. it all feels like a world i'm creating, like a world i'm mustering- me and my spills of ink.
language is a crazy thing. and writing. and poetry. i'm not even sure if poetry is what i write. what are these snippets that come out of me? these fragments of a life, of a human being, of wishes and dreams.
sometimes i feel like maybe i'm doing something wrong by giving away so much of my writing here on the BLOG. i worry that i'm going about all this the wrong way and that i should actively try for "real" publication, that i'm somehow selling myself short by not trying to be published. i'm just too impatient for all that at this point in my life. i like the instant connection. i like the rush of blood.
i kinda hate the word BLOG too. i definitely hate the word BLOGGER. i do not title myself as such. i tend not to think of this space in those terms. like you, i see it as a notebook. or better yet, as the white cube. i see it as a gallery space that is entirely open to hosting any performance, any image i want to display. in some ways, this is definitely where the real work is done. or, at least, begins. some of the best writing i've ever done is nestled here, in electric light, lost in the backward reaching scroll of the blog format. i don't know if i will ever go back and fish them out from the messy wad of text i've coughed up here. maybe one day i'll be strong enough for that. maybe one day i'll be Writer enough for that. i'm so impressed with you for being able to do it and i can't wait to read Heroines.
but for all my worry and ambivalence, i'm delighted by this little playground of mine. these games of identity. the shifting nature of the Self reinforced by the shifting nature of language. words make the world. we build our own images. we erect our own mirrors, our own temples, our own sloppy signs. not everything is accurate and maybe it doesn't need to be?
for a long time i was obsessed by the idea of accuracy. i wanted to be as accurate as possible. needed to be. otherwise, i felt like a liar. then one day, i noticed the difference between accuracy and honesty and i chose to move in the direction of honesty instead. sometimes fogginess, sloppiness, sketchiness is the most honest expression there is. the diary. there's something about it that is so barbed, so dangerous. the potential for danger, the potential for making a mess, the probability that a mess will be made is so attractive... the taboo of keeping secrets, the danger inherent to teaching females how to read and write. who knows what the bitch might say? i don't want to be calm. i don't want to be measured. at least not when it comes to writing and not when it comes to art and definitely not when it comes to my own life. sometimes i think my diary is the best work i have ever done. it is where everything begins. all my work starts there, on the cool blue lines of my private notebook. it is my life's work. daily, i reach for my pen and, daily, i tell the truth. it isn't an easy thing to do. to tell the truth, i mean. especially about myself. there are times when the mirror i create in the pages of my diary is quite brutal. i have felt such massive shame. but it is a necessary and good thing. i could only watch myself write the same words over and over for so long before i had to act, before i had to cry out against the life i had allowed to spring up all around me, before i had to cut it down. i cut it down with my pen. i cut it down with your books by my bedside.
anais nin's diary changed my life. it's still changing my life. we've talked about her so many times- her undeniable courage and dedication. i think of her when i get afraid. i think of her when i don't feel equal to the challenges in front of me. i think of her laying in bed with her diary, the same way i lay with mine, scribbling a world in to existence. a world she needed, a world she preferred. i think you're right that she would've kept a blog.
it is brave work you do. your example has helped me become capable of my own bravery. and not just bravery on the page either. if it has been your Work this year, i am thankful to have had access to it. the world you are building encourages my faith. i read your words and gather strength.
all my love,
angela
most of the time i'm not really sure what i'm doing. what The Work is and is not. it all feels like The Work to me. it all feels like a world i'm creating, like a world i'm mustering- me and my spills of ink.
language is a crazy thing. and writing. and poetry. i'm not even sure if poetry is what i write. what are these snippets that come out of me? these fragments of a life, of a human being, of wishes and dreams.
sometimes i feel like maybe i'm doing something wrong by giving away so much of my writing here on the BLOG. i worry that i'm going about all this the wrong way and that i should actively try for "real" publication, that i'm somehow selling myself short by not trying to be published. i'm just too impatient for all that at this point in my life. i like the instant connection. i like the rush of blood.
i kinda hate the word BLOG too. i definitely hate the word BLOGGER. i do not title myself as such. i tend not to think of this space in those terms. like you, i see it as a notebook. or better yet, as the white cube. i see it as a gallery space that is entirely open to hosting any performance, any image i want to display. in some ways, this is definitely where the real work is done. or, at least, begins. some of the best writing i've ever done is nestled here, in electric light, lost in the backward reaching scroll of the blog format. i don't know if i will ever go back and fish them out from the messy wad of text i've coughed up here. maybe one day i'll be strong enough for that. maybe one day i'll be Writer enough for that. i'm so impressed with you for being able to do it and i can't wait to read Heroines.
but for all my worry and ambivalence, i'm delighted by this little playground of mine. these games of identity. the shifting nature of the Self reinforced by the shifting nature of language. words make the world. we build our own images. we erect our own mirrors, our own temples, our own sloppy signs. not everything is accurate and maybe it doesn't need to be?
for a long time i was obsessed by the idea of accuracy. i wanted to be as accurate as possible. needed to be. otherwise, i felt like a liar. then one day, i noticed the difference between accuracy and honesty and i chose to move in the direction of honesty instead. sometimes fogginess, sloppiness, sketchiness is the most honest expression there is. the diary. there's something about it that is so barbed, so dangerous. the potential for danger, the potential for making a mess, the probability that a mess will be made is so attractive... the taboo of keeping secrets, the danger inherent to teaching females how to read and write. who knows what the bitch might say? i don't want to be calm. i don't want to be measured. at least not when it comes to writing and not when it comes to art and definitely not when it comes to my own life. sometimes i think my diary is the best work i have ever done. it is where everything begins. all my work starts there, on the cool blue lines of my private notebook. it is my life's work. daily, i reach for my pen and, daily, i tell the truth. it isn't an easy thing to do. to tell the truth, i mean. especially about myself. there are times when the mirror i create in the pages of my diary is quite brutal. i have felt such massive shame. but it is a necessary and good thing. i could only watch myself write the same words over and over for so long before i had to act, before i had to cry out against the life i had allowed to spring up all around me, before i had to cut it down. i cut it down with my pen. i cut it down with your books by my bedside.
anais nin's diary changed my life. it's still changing my life. we've talked about her so many times- her undeniable courage and dedication. i think of her when i get afraid. i think of her when i don't feel equal to the challenges in front of me. i think of her laying in bed with her diary, the same way i lay with mine, scribbling a world in to existence. a world she needed, a world she preferred. i think you're right that she would've kept a blog.
it is brave work you do. your example has helped me become capable of my own bravery. and not just bravery on the page either. if it has been your Work this year, i am thankful to have had access to it. the world you are building encourages my faith. i read your words and gather strength.
all my love,
angela
Oct 2, 2012
Dec 12, 2011
Jun 9, 2011
Mar 15, 2011
i am something that i cannot describe. my heart is Chicken Little.
es regnet.
der himmel ist grau und ich bin sehr traurig.
my phone rang last night at 8:30 and the screen of my cell-phone had my step-father's name lit across it. i thought of the time difference between california and tennessee. i answered the call. my voice went small. i've recently stumbled in to a string of bad days. i hit the 2 month mark of life without my mother a few days ago. the 12th. and viewing shitty apartments drenched in cat piss has not been much of a help.
he asked how i was doing and i said "okay" just like a little kid. so small, voice quavering. "you don't sound like you're okay" he said and that's all it took to break my ridiculous dam. FLOOD WATERS OF BIBLICAL PROPORTIONS. i cried and yelled and hit the wall. these actions are completely out of character for me but having a dead mother is pretty out of character for me too so...
i cried hard and woke today with swollen eyes, feeling slightly embarrassed about having exposed the particulars, the details, the swing and shift of my life that boggles my mind sometimes... everything is so up in the air. i have no clue what to do. i have no idea what i'm doing. when i said "i just don't know what i'm doing anymore", he said "yes you do. yes you do." and when it comes to this, this pounding out of words, this creation of images, this land where i writhe in the grass, not roll - writhe! - yes, i know what i am doing... it is everything else that is such a huge and horrible question mark. such a looming fearful confusion. it's normal, the data says. the stages of grief and all that. but in a way, it is so much more. i am mourning so many things at once.
this morning, i ignored my alarm clock and finally woke up at 11am. as soon as i saw the time, i thought "yep... i'm depressed."
of course i am. i think that makes me absolutely normal.
kate zambreno let loose a small portion of her work book of mutter on her blog this morning. what a gift to receive after a night like last night. i needed to feel this kind of connection and the permission it extends.
i have spent the majority of my life feeling so alone but nothing like this. the depth of this aloneness is astounding. it shocks even me. i was once a baby. i was once inside her body, growing there, warm, safe, in the right place. that was a long time ago. it's been a very long time since i have felt those things and i feel so far from the possibility of feeling those things again. but i know they exist and that i must somehow manage to be tough, to be practical, to put one foot in front of the other and make the hard calls, the uncomfortable choices.
i've missed one day of school this semester. one day. not bad. and i haven't missed a day of work other than going to say good-bye and be present for the funeral. i have not called off. i have not spent an entire day in bed. i've stayed committed to exercise and am still a non-smoker. it's been 5 months now since i quit. i am not in a dangerous place, i'm just on the horrible roller coaster, i guess.
reading kate's excerpt lets me know that i am not as alone as i feel. not nearly. this strange club we find ourselves in... girls and women without mothers. writers and artists without mothers. children who lost their mother way too early. it is a strange club indeed but i'm glad it exists. this lineage we build, the lines we draw back and forth to one another, the words that make the bridge, the words that burn the bridge, the words that re-make (re-mark) the Self, the words that define a person and a family and a world... we make a new site for ourselves in text. we find each other there. here. in paragraphs and pages and diaries and novels and even computer screens.
i am absolutely grateful for this. i am so grateful to have a place to be. writing/art has saved my life so many times. so so so many times. it will not fail me this time either. it is my mode. it is how i live.
kate writes, "i cannot mute my violence." this is a pain beyond compare and the fuel that moves the pen.
i dream lately of becoming a creature akin to jean genet. i dream of getting rid of all my possessions save for books and notebooks and art. i dream of moving in to my car and being a haphazard vagabond. i go to class and i learn a new language and the rest of the hours of the day feel like half-truths. on campus and in my notebook are the only places i feel like i am being myself.
chicken little...
the sky is falling.
yes it did.
yes it is.
yes it is.
yes it is.
der himmel ist grau und ich bin sehr traurig.
my phone rang last night at 8:30 and the screen of my cell-phone had my step-father's name lit across it. i thought of the time difference between california and tennessee. i answered the call. my voice went small. i've recently stumbled in to a string of bad days. i hit the 2 month mark of life without my mother a few days ago. the 12th. and viewing shitty apartments drenched in cat piss has not been much of a help.
he asked how i was doing and i said "okay" just like a little kid. so small, voice quavering. "you don't sound like you're okay" he said and that's all it took to break my ridiculous dam. FLOOD WATERS OF BIBLICAL PROPORTIONS. i cried and yelled and hit the wall. these actions are completely out of character for me but having a dead mother is pretty out of character for me too so...
i cried hard and woke today with swollen eyes, feeling slightly embarrassed about having exposed the particulars, the details, the swing and shift of my life that boggles my mind sometimes... everything is so up in the air. i have no clue what to do. i have no idea what i'm doing. when i said "i just don't know what i'm doing anymore", he said "yes you do. yes you do." and when it comes to this, this pounding out of words, this creation of images, this land where i writhe in the grass, not roll - writhe! - yes, i know what i am doing... it is everything else that is such a huge and horrible question mark. such a looming fearful confusion. it's normal, the data says. the stages of grief and all that. but in a way, it is so much more. i am mourning so many things at once.
this morning, i ignored my alarm clock and finally woke up at 11am. as soon as i saw the time, i thought "yep... i'm depressed."
of course i am. i think that makes me absolutely normal.
kate zambreno let loose a small portion of her work book of mutter on her blog this morning. what a gift to receive after a night like last night. i needed to feel this kind of connection and the permission it extends.
i have spent the majority of my life feeling so alone but nothing like this. the depth of this aloneness is astounding. it shocks even me. i was once a baby. i was once inside her body, growing there, warm, safe, in the right place. that was a long time ago. it's been a very long time since i have felt those things and i feel so far from the possibility of feeling those things again. but i know they exist and that i must somehow manage to be tough, to be practical, to put one foot in front of the other and make the hard calls, the uncomfortable choices.
i've missed one day of school this semester. one day. not bad. and i haven't missed a day of work other than going to say good-bye and be present for the funeral. i have not called off. i have not spent an entire day in bed. i've stayed committed to exercise and am still a non-smoker. it's been 5 months now since i quit. i am not in a dangerous place, i'm just on the horrible roller coaster, i guess.
reading kate's excerpt lets me know that i am not as alone as i feel. not nearly. this strange club we find ourselves in... girls and women without mothers. writers and artists without mothers. children who lost their mother way too early. it is a strange club indeed but i'm glad it exists. this lineage we build, the lines we draw back and forth to one another, the words that make the bridge, the words that burn the bridge, the words that re-make (re-mark) the Self, the words that define a person and a family and a world... we make a new site for ourselves in text. we find each other there. here. in paragraphs and pages and diaries and novels and even computer screens.
i am absolutely grateful for this. i am so grateful to have a place to be. writing/art has saved my life so many times. so so so many times. it will not fail me this time either. it is my mode. it is how i live.
kate writes, "i cannot mute my violence." this is a pain beyond compare and the fuel that moves the pen.
i dream lately of becoming a creature akin to jean genet. i dream of getting rid of all my possessions save for books and notebooks and art. i dream of moving in to my car and being a haphazard vagabond. i go to class and i learn a new language and the rest of the hours of the day feel like half-truths. on campus and in my notebook are the only places i feel like i am being myself.
chicken little...
the sky is falling.
yes it did.
yes it is.
yes it is.
yes it is.
Mar 1, 2011
dear kate
originally a comment left here.
i wrote of you the other day on my blog. like rebecca, i read here every day too. i miss you on days you don't post. like a junkie. entirely selfish for my fix. that is the way i miss your writing.
but i am blasted apart lately. shrapnel in the air. that is what i am. that is why it is so hard for me to leave comments on other people's blogs for the passed few months. that is why it is so hard for me to fall in to a rhythm here on my own blog. i am shrapnel. or space junk. colliding. not falling. nothing has fallen back down to earth yet. everything is suspended and staring and sharp-edged. i don't know what this means for me except massive change. i know the change, eventually, will be Good. i know you know this road.
so many things seem unreal. in the Baudrillard sense of the word. the fucking Matrix. all a farce.
real things: nail polish (i'm sort of sorry i keep talking about the stuff but not really. there is something life-affirming, not to mention Girl-Affirming, about it and i need that right now.), wild hair, art, books, cool shoes, music, poems, diaries. and the need to be alone long enough to stake some sort of claim to myself. that's been big on the list lately. i've been spending so much time off on my own, involved in my notebook and studying and making things... it is a hunt for identity maybe. or a way to find the new dings and cracks. or a way to establish a new identity. this new self. this status of Non-Daughter. or is it Anti-Daughter? i have an entire rant about this in my notebook which might end up in public soon.
sometimes i worry about what i share here. sometimes i am embarrassed and worry myself sick that i have said too much.
i've had those same humiliating discussions about jobs and money. they are so horrible and so damaging. they have reduced me to a tearful mess on so many occasions. so few family members will ever understand the sacrifice of Life Style for the chance to be an artist. keep writing as much as you can. and i love the image i have of you writing and reading in those "train wreck" dresses. that sentence of yours: I've decided lately I want to have the personal aesthetic of a train wreck. ah, i know this and i love it and it made me smile so damn wide when i read it. it made me feel proud of you. there is bravery in it. bravery is always worth more than fearlessness. so much more. and always will be.
i've been working on dressing like a gothy patti smith. patti smith back in the days of being a kid with mappelthorpe and Fuck The Clock and all that bit. white t-shirt, black pants, cool dirty shoes. but i'm also working on being brave enough to wear insanely bright red lipstick. i'm trying to become the sort of girl who can do that and not feel self-conscious. i'm trying to go from a naked mouth to a painfully red one. it's pretty jarring. i wear it around the house and my sweetie does a double-take and says "that's really bright". i respond "that means it's cool" and leave the conversation there.
i have a valentine for you. i am horribly late this year, i know. but it is here in an envelope and i promise to get it to the post-office today. i'm such a fucking jerk sometimes. sometimes it's hard to get much done. sometimes the simplest task - going to the post-office - presents itself as such a huge, daunting, unbelievably high hurdle. it's ridiculous. this is sadness and the related selfishness, i guess. i hate it.
my fingernails are silver. gold at your tips makes me smile and feel close to you. i keep buying books you've recommended so that i can be a smarter, better, more connected, more sensitive artist... a better human being.
the other day as i was walking across campus i saw the huge banner stretched across the library that read WOMEN'S HISTORY MONTH! i thought... do we still need a month dedicated to us like this? and then i looked at the swarms of 19 and 20 year old boys i was trying to make my way through, a sea of boners, and sadly realized that yes, we still do.
when you're doing readings for Green Girl i hope you can come to san francisco. i want to see you in your dresses and go to the SFMOMA with you.
and then you said this:
I am also realizing in terms of my communication of the self here, and in private, in public and in private, all in an attempt to have a community, I do not really articulate the nature of my depression, my apartness, my solitude, and I still even though I have formed friendships of a sort through this do not understand the texture of anyone else's suffering. Because when we see each other or write each other we always speak around it. So how do I really reveal myself at all? I have one friend who I write my depression to, and she writes hers back to me. Like sliding notes underneath the door.
tis a call to action that i take very seriously. i'm trying to do better. to be more willing to risk everything in order to reveal the texture, as you say. i want to be able to do it. and i need to.
to echo rebecca again... i learn so much from you.
<3
i wrote of you the other day on my blog. like rebecca, i read here every day too. i miss you on days you don't post. like a junkie. entirely selfish for my fix. that is the way i miss your writing.
but i am blasted apart lately. shrapnel in the air. that is what i am. that is why it is so hard for me to leave comments on other people's blogs for the passed few months. that is why it is so hard for me to fall in to a rhythm here on my own blog. i am shrapnel. or space junk. colliding. not falling. nothing has fallen back down to earth yet. everything is suspended and staring and sharp-edged. i don't know what this means for me except massive change. i know the change, eventually, will be Good. i know you know this road.
so many things seem unreal. in the Baudrillard sense of the word. the fucking Matrix. all a farce.
real things: nail polish (i'm sort of sorry i keep talking about the stuff but not really. there is something life-affirming, not to mention Girl-Affirming, about it and i need that right now.), wild hair, art, books, cool shoes, music, poems, diaries. and the need to be alone long enough to stake some sort of claim to myself. that's been big on the list lately. i've been spending so much time off on my own, involved in my notebook and studying and making things... it is a hunt for identity maybe. or a way to find the new dings and cracks. or a way to establish a new identity. this new self. this status of Non-Daughter. or is it Anti-Daughter? i have an entire rant about this in my notebook which might end up in public soon.
sometimes i worry about what i share here. sometimes i am embarrassed and worry myself sick that i have said too much.
i've had those same humiliating discussions about jobs and money. they are so horrible and so damaging. they have reduced me to a tearful mess on so many occasions. so few family members will ever understand the sacrifice of Life Style for the chance to be an artist. keep writing as much as you can. and i love the image i have of you writing and reading in those "train wreck" dresses. that sentence of yours: I've decided lately I want to have the personal aesthetic of a train wreck. ah, i know this and i love it and it made me smile so damn wide when i read it. it made me feel proud of you. there is bravery in it. bravery is always worth more than fearlessness. so much more. and always will be.
i've been working on dressing like a gothy patti smith. patti smith back in the days of being a kid with mappelthorpe and Fuck The Clock and all that bit. white t-shirt, black pants, cool dirty shoes. but i'm also working on being brave enough to wear insanely bright red lipstick. i'm trying to become the sort of girl who can do that and not feel self-conscious. i'm trying to go from a naked mouth to a painfully red one. it's pretty jarring. i wear it around the house and my sweetie does a double-take and says "that's really bright". i respond "that means it's cool" and leave the conversation there.
i have a valentine for you. i am horribly late this year, i know. but it is here in an envelope and i promise to get it to the post-office today. i'm such a fucking jerk sometimes. sometimes it's hard to get much done. sometimes the simplest task - going to the post-office - presents itself as such a huge, daunting, unbelievably high hurdle. it's ridiculous. this is sadness and the related selfishness, i guess. i hate it.
my fingernails are silver. gold at your tips makes me smile and feel close to you. i keep buying books you've recommended so that i can be a smarter, better, more connected, more sensitive artist... a better human being.
the other day as i was walking across campus i saw the huge banner stretched across the library that read WOMEN'S HISTORY MONTH! i thought... do we still need a month dedicated to us like this? and then i looked at the swarms of 19 and 20 year old boys i was trying to make my way through, a sea of boners, and sadly realized that yes, we still do.
when you're doing readings for Green Girl i hope you can come to san francisco. i want to see you in your dresses and go to the SFMOMA with you.
and then you said this:
I am also realizing in terms of my communication of the self here, and in private, in public and in private, all in an attempt to have a community, I do not really articulate the nature of my depression, my apartness, my solitude, and I still even though I have formed friendships of a sort through this do not understand the texture of anyone else's suffering. Because when we see each other or write each other we always speak around it. So how do I really reveal myself at all? I have one friend who I write my depression to, and she writes hers back to me. Like sliding notes underneath the door.
tis a call to action that i take very seriously. i'm trying to do better. to be more willing to risk everything in order to reveal the texture, as you say. i want to be able to do it. and i need to.
to echo rebecca again... i learn so much from you.
<3
Feb 25, 2011
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.
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.
Feb 4, 2011
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
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
Jan 22, 2011
comfort
.
"The same thing which makes Henry indestructible is what makes me indestructible. The core of us is an artist, a writer. And it is our work, by our work, that we reassemble the fragments, re-create wholeness."
The Diary of Anais Nin, page 69
.
"The same thing which makes Henry indestructible is what makes me indestructible. The core of us is an artist, a writer. And it is our work, by our work, that we reassemble the fragments, re-create wholeness."
The Diary of Anais Nin, page 69
.
Dec 29, 2010
required reading
i am making a shepard's pie and, after i stuff myself full of said deliciousness, i am going to lay down with my notebook and my beautiful Jean Genet. i am going to write and read and write and read until i fall asleep. and oh, what a perfect diamond this man is! i must get a copy of Wojnarowicz's autobiography as a follow up. these men, born in to tragedy, who led tragic lives but managed to create an avenue of transcendence, a way to take the shit of life and mold it in to such an uncommon Beauty. i'm grateful for them. i'm grateful for their sensitivity and tenacity and ferocity. i'm grateful for all the writers in my life. endlessly so. more and more and more.
Jul 27, 2010
dear ariana reines,
for what it's worth, i really like what you're about. i saw a person talk some shit to you online in the comments section at Everyday Genius. i like the way you handled that. i liked it as much as i like your work and your blog, which is VERY MUCH. there's just something about what you do that gives me a lot of hope and i'm really appreciative of that. it makes me want to be more courageous and more attentive to ethics.
i like how you tell the truth. i like the words you use. i like your eyeglasses.
i like that you know you don't owe anybody anything and so all the work you make has a Gift function. i especially like that you MEAN IT- this art thing. again, it gives me a lot of hope.
thank you.
angela
for what it's worth, i really like what you're about. i saw a person talk some shit to you online in the comments section at Everyday Genius. i like the way you handled that. i liked it as much as i like your work and your blog, which is VERY MUCH. there's just something about what you do that gives me a lot of hope and i'm really appreciative of that. it makes me want to be more courageous and more attentive to ethics.
i like how you tell the truth. i like the words you use. i like your eyeglasses.
i like that you know you don't owe anybody anything and so all the work you make has a Gift function. i especially like that you MEAN IT- this art thing. again, it gives me a lot of hope.
thank you.
angela
Jul 22, 2010
this is why rants and blogs are good:
i re-read the post below and realized i answered my own question: sit here and look at the work and shuffle it all around and see what narratives arise as a result. patience patience patience. curation is tough stuff. the worst thing i can do is rush and start forcing things together.
anyway, for all the writers in the room, here's a portrait for you. ;)
writer
15" x 12"
graphite on paper
angela simione, 2010
anyway, for all the writers in the room, here's a portrait for you. ;)
writer
15" x 12"
graphite on paper
angela simione, 2010
Jun 27, 2010
secrets and Kate Zambreno and DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR DAUGHTERS ARE?
i have now read Kate Zambreno's book O Fallen Angel twice. both times, in one hot shot all the way through. both times out loud. and i'm going to tell you how wonderful it is very soon but i'm still letting it run through me, digest it and see the connections: Wal-mart and Wife Swap and Baudelaire. yes, Baudelaire! because your book finally slung that in to place, it now makes sense, the imaginary land we traverse. yes. "the banality of evil". these pervasive horrors. horrors with a little h. it's like trying to see the air. it's all around you, it's in you. how do you stop gulping it down?
but for now... the best thing i can give you, Kate, by way of endorsement and appreciation, by way of showcasing gratitude is to show you what you've inspired. because isn't that the best testament of how wonderful your work is? that you made me think and you made me feel and you made me laugh and you made me read your book TWICE IN ONE DAMN WEEK and you made me write write write. because it's important to let you know that i know that Mommy too. i've met a lot of Mommies. and i know the horrors that twist through the suburbs, the creeping gross things that are ignored, minimized, squelched, the OH, GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF! IT'S NOT THAT BAD! and all the deceptions that smear a person's face. all the tragedies that get swept away, filed away, because the community's standards of decency will not tolerate such words. because THIS IS THE SUBURBS! NOTHING BAD EVER HAPPENS HERE!
as pervasive as air.
this is an excerpt from The Letter i'm writing... part of what i wrote today. still raw, still running in so many directions at once, but it is a purge. the broken dam. i'm sure you'll see your touch on it. it is my tribute to your ideas and fearlessness. it is a huge, huge THANK YOU!
buy her book.
excerpt:
and they'd say L.A. IS JUST A SHINIER VERSION OF EVERYWHERE ELSE and WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO GO TO SEATTLE? SEATTLE IS A DIRTY HIPPIE MESS! and THERE'S NOTHING TO SEE IN NEW YORK BUT BUMS DYING ON THE SIDEWALK and SAN FRANCISCO IS WHERE ALL THE FAGS ARE! WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO GO THERE? ARE YOU A FAG TOO? FAGS ROT IN HELL!
and so in San Francisco, i saw the films of Sadie Benning. and i wasn't at all impressed. not one bit. none of this was News to me. because i was poor and i already knew all of this. i had already SAID all of this. i had notebooks full of it. and i was poor and in a class that wasn't really built to hold that particular wealth of knowledge, and i knew all the hate all the anger all the injustice all the everything Sadie Benning was talking about. i already knew what it was to be Outside- because poor people burn in hell too, just like a pack of FAGS. especially in high school. HA! HA! HA! YOU'RE WEARING THE WRONG SHOES! HEY EVERYBODY, LOOK AT ANGELA'S SHOES! SHE'S GOT FAKE DOC MARTENS! DID YOU GET THOSE FROM PAY-LESS? HA! HA! HA! and OH MY GOD! IS YOUR SHIRT HOME-MADE? HA! HA! HA! but i looked around the classroom. i looked around at the faces of the other students and the face of the teacher and i saw how taken aback they were that a young girl would say such things, such unpleasant things, so full of spite and resentment and refusal. i saw the sweep of astonishment spread across their faces and their mouths drop down in long O's when she said YEAH, I AM GONNA DITCH SCHOOL AGAIN TOMORROW. WHO'S GONNA STOP ME? and the Horror! the Amazement! and they said there is eloquence and honesty here. and all i could think was but but but. because i had said these same words. i had made identical statements. over and over again. and i assure you, my mother did not think it "eloquent and honest" no. and even though i wasn't lesbian, i sure was accused of it a lot. baggy clothes and combat boots and NO MAKE-UP and NO BOYFRIEND. and they threw food at Jose during lunch time because he was A FUCKING FAGGOT and none of the teachers ever put a stop to it because he was A FUCKING FAGGOT and because he was A FUCKING MEXICAN and this was all going down in a lily-white republican suburb in California. and WHY ARE YOU HANGING OUT WITH HIM? ARE YOU A FAGGOT TOO? ARE YOU A NIGGER LOVER? HE'S A FUCKING SAND NIGGER. ANGELA IS A NIGGER LOVER! ANGELA IS A NIGGER LOVER! HA! HA! HA! and in the suburbs: friends getting fucked by their daddies, friends getting raped by their daddies and their mommies ignoring it, friends getting ignored by their mommies, their mommies deserving a little F-U-N, young girls sleeping with full grown men for small bags of speed, friends stealing other friends TVs for small bags of speed, 15 year old girls getting pregnant and losing their babies at the 8th month because their parents were doing speed too. and the poor girl (god bless and keep you, Jackie) couldn't quit with her parents snorting lines right in front of her scared, sweet face. couldn't quit with those lines those lines those lines stacked up so nicely on a dirty tabloid magazine on the dirty coffee table:
i heard the ambulance coming and it turned up the road and it stopped in front of Jackie's house.
Jackie and i had met in the 6th grade. both new kids. both poor kids. both unbearably shy and sweet and never ever talking back. and then the day came when all the little children had to line up and get their head checked by the school nurse. LICE OUTBREAK! and one by one, the little children filed out. and one by one, they came back. unless they had been INFESTED WITH LICE! the dirty person's disease! you knew who had it because they didn't come back to class. and Jackie did not come back to class that day. and i wanted to cry. i kept watching the door, hoping to see her, hoping hoping hoping no no no. and she never came back and the refrain began: ANGELA, WHERE'S YOUR FRIEND? HA! HA! HA! ANGELA IS FRIENDS WITH THE DIRTY GIRL! ANGELA IS FRIENDS WITH THE DIRTY GIRL! ANGELA'S DIRTY TOO! POOR GIRL! POOR GIRL! POOR GIRLS GET LICE! SHOW US YOUR LICE, ANGELA! HA! HA! HA! and it was worse for Jackie on Monday when Jackie came back to class. we played together until Christmas break, way out at the far edge of the play ground, by ourselves. Jackie didn't come back to school after Christmas.
i met her again when we were 15 and i was so happy! her smile was just the same. we were 15 and both still so poor, both still so sweet. we were 15 and out came Jackie on a stretcher, oxygen mask over her face. flat on her back. huge pregnant belly. still as a corpse.
no one said a word.
weeks had passed. i saw Jackie on the street. stomach flat. no baby. i waved at her. she waved back and kept walking. she was wearing a blue sun dress with little white flowers on it. no baby. she was heading back home. no baby. no one said a word.
and so- in the suburbs: 15 year old girls getting pregnant and being sent to continuation school. yanked out of regular school because they weren't allowed to be there in their "delicate condition". there was a Clause at the normal High School. WE MUST PROTECT THE IMAGE! WE HAVE PRIDE IN OUR COMMUNITY! WE HAVE PRIDE IN OURSELVES! and so the careless girls were sent to continuation school, yanked out of their classes with their friends and the teachers grown to love and trust. yanked out and hidden, sent to the BAD KIDS SCHOOL, for deciding against abortion. because ABORTION SENDS YOU STRAIGHT TO HELL! but your swollen belly offends! your swollen belly will not be tolerated! your swollen belly is an attack on our good, lily-white, Christian values! and so we will hide you until you look Normal again, until you LOOK All-American again, until you can PASS for being one of US.
and so i was a 16 year old scrunch-face with no one to talk to- talking to my notebook the way Sadie Benning talked to her video camera. only i wasn't tough like Sadie Benning, i only looked like it because of my scrunch-face. i was shy and afraid and i kept to myself, one blue eye risked toward the world, i kept to myself and i planned to go on keeping to myself until the day came where i could finally get the fuck out of this fucking place.
but for now... the best thing i can give you, Kate, by way of endorsement and appreciation, by way of showcasing gratitude is to show you what you've inspired. because isn't that the best testament of how wonderful your work is? that you made me think and you made me feel and you made me laugh and you made me read your book TWICE IN ONE DAMN WEEK and you made me write write write. because it's important to let you know that i know that Mommy too. i've met a lot of Mommies. and i know the horrors that twist through the suburbs, the creeping gross things that are ignored, minimized, squelched, the OH, GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF! IT'S NOT THAT BAD! and all the deceptions that smear a person's face. all the tragedies that get swept away, filed away, because the community's standards of decency will not tolerate such words. because THIS IS THE SUBURBS! NOTHING BAD EVER HAPPENS HERE!
as pervasive as air.
this is an excerpt from The Letter i'm writing... part of what i wrote today. still raw, still running in so many directions at once, but it is a purge. the broken dam. i'm sure you'll see your touch on it. it is my tribute to your ideas and fearlessness. it is a huge, huge THANK YOU!
buy her book.
excerpt:
and they'd say L.A. IS JUST A SHINIER VERSION OF EVERYWHERE ELSE and WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO GO TO SEATTLE? SEATTLE IS A DIRTY HIPPIE MESS! and THERE'S NOTHING TO SEE IN NEW YORK BUT BUMS DYING ON THE SIDEWALK and SAN FRANCISCO IS WHERE ALL THE FAGS ARE! WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO GO THERE? ARE YOU A FAG TOO? FAGS ROT IN HELL!
and so in San Francisco, i saw the films of Sadie Benning. and i wasn't at all impressed. not one bit. none of this was News to me. because i was poor and i already knew all of this. i had already SAID all of this. i had notebooks full of it. and i was poor and in a class that wasn't really built to hold that particular wealth of knowledge, and i knew all the hate all the anger all the injustice all the everything Sadie Benning was talking about. i already knew what it was to be Outside- because poor people burn in hell too, just like a pack of FAGS. especially in high school. HA! HA! HA! YOU'RE WEARING THE WRONG SHOES! HEY EVERYBODY, LOOK AT ANGELA'S SHOES! SHE'S GOT FAKE DOC MARTENS! DID YOU GET THOSE FROM PAY-LESS? HA! HA! HA! and OH MY GOD! IS YOUR SHIRT HOME-MADE? HA! HA! HA! but i looked around the classroom. i looked around at the faces of the other students and the face of the teacher and i saw how taken aback they were that a young girl would say such things, such unpleasant things, so full of spite and resentment and refusal. i saw the sweep of astonishment spread across their faces and their mouths drop down in long O's when she said YEAH, I AM GONNA DITCH SCHOOL AGAIN TOMORROW. WHO'S GONNA STOP ME? and the Horror! the Amazement! and they said there is eloquence and honesty here. and all i could think was but but but. because i had said these same words. i had made identical statements. over and over again. and i assure you, my mother did not think it "eloquent and honest" no. and even though i wasn't lesbian, i sure was accused of it a lot. baggy clothes and combat boots and NO MAKE-UP and NO BOYFRIEND. and they threw food at Jose during lunch time because he was A FUCKING FAGGOT and none of the teachers ever put a stop to it because he was A FUCKING FAGGOT and because he was A FUCKING MEXICAN and this was all going down in a lily-white republican suburb in California. and WHY ARE YOU HANGING OUT WITH HIM? ARE YOU A FAGGOT TOO? ARE YOU A NIGGER LOVER? HE'S A FUCKING SAND NIGGER. ANGELA IS A NIGGER LOVER! ANGELA IS A NIGGER LOVER! HA! HA! HA! and in the suburbs: friends getting fucked by their daddies, friends getting raped by their daddies and their mommies ignoring it, friends getting ignored by their mommies, their mommies deserving a little F-U-N, young girls sleeping with full grown men for small bags of speed, friends stealing other friends TVs for small bags of speed, 15 year old girls getting pregnant and losing their babies at the 8th month because their parents were doing speed too. and the poor girl (god bless and keep you, Jackie) couldn't quit with her parents snorting lines right in front of her scared, sweet face. couldn't quit with those lines those lines those lines stacked up so nicely on a dirty tabloid magazine on the dirty coffee table:
i heard the ambulance coming and it turned up the road and it stopped in front of Jackie's house.
Jackie and i had met in the 6th grade. both new kids. both poor kids. both unbearably shy and sweet and never ever talking back. and then the day came when all the little children had to line up and get their head checked by the school nurse. LICE OUTBREAK! and one by one, the little children filed out. and one by one, they came back. unless they had been INFESTED WITH LICE! the dirty person's disease! you knew who had it because they didn't come back to class. and Jackie did not come back to class that day. and i wanted to cry. i kept watching the door, hoping to see her, hoping hoping hoping no no no. and she never came back and the refrain began: ANGELA, WHERE'S YOUR FRIEND? HA! HA! HA! ANGELA IS FRIENDS WITH THE DIRTY GIRL! ANGELA IS FRIENDS WITH THE DIRTY GIRL! ANGELA'S DIRTY TOO! POOR GIRL! POOR GIRL! POOR GIRLS GET LICE! SHOW US YOUR LICE, ANGELA! HA! HA! HA! and it was worse for Jackie on Monday when Jackie came back to class. we played together until Christmas break, way out at the far edge of the play ground, by ourselves. Jackie didn't come back to school after Christmas.
i met her again when we were 15 and i was so happy! her smile was just the same. we were 15 and both still so poor, both still so sweet. we were 15 and out came Jackie on a stretcher, oxygen mask over her face. flat on her back. huge pregnant belly. still as a corpse.
no one said a word.
weeks had passed. i saw Jackie on the street. stomach flat. no baby. i waved at her. she waved back and kept walking. she was wearing a blue sun dress with little white flowers on it. no baby. she was heading back home. no baby. no one said a word.
and so- in the suburbs: 15 year old girls getting pregnant and being sent to continuation school. yanked out of regular school because they weren't allowed to be there in their "delicate condition". there was a Clause at the normal High School. WE MUST PROTECT THE IMAGE! WE HAVE PRIDE IN OUR COMMUNITY! WE HAVE PRIDE IN OURSELVES! and so the careless girls were sent to continuation school, yanked out of their classes with their friends and the teachers grown to love and trust. yanked out and hidden, sent to the BAD KIDS SCHOOL, for deciding against abortion. because ABORTION SENDS YOU STRAIGHT TO HELL! but your swollen belly offends! your swollen belly will not be tolerated! your swollen belly is an attack on our good, lily-white, Christian values! and so we will hide you until you look Normal again, until you LOOK All-American again, until you can PASS for being one of US.
and so i was a 16 year old scrunch-face with no one to talk to- talking to my notebook the way Sadie Benning talked to her video camera. only i wasn't tough like Sadie Benning, i only looked like it because of my scrunch-face. i was shy and afraid and i kept to myself, one blue eye risked toward the world, i kept to myself and i planned to go on keeping to myself until the day came where i could finally get the fuck out of this fucking place.
Jun 23, 2010
education and "education" and love:
the risk of yesterday proved to be beneficial and worthwhile and happy-making. :)
i have put the piece away again but it will be back one day. thank you. (((HUG)))
and last night before bed, i thought of Anne Sexton. opened The Complete Poems at random and read "Suicide Note". then this morning, another random ruffling of pages, and i read "That Day". and so caught by her, her story, her persona (?), the cape that swirls around her, i read the introduction by Maxine Kumin, with my coffee, aloud on the floor of the bathroom.
i knew the neighbor kids could hear me as they walked off giggling to school.
but i read the entire thing out loud, unembarrassed, and by the time i got to the end where Maxine - a friend to Anne, so close a friend that maybe, if we ignore ideas about tradition and location and gender, their friendship could be described more accurately as Marriage - speaks of Anne's threat to never send a telegram of her death plan ever again and then succeeds in her attempt just 6 months after making that assertion. and my eyes teared. teared so badly, i couldn't make out the text. i felt overcome with loss and gratitude and awe and just plain ol' love...
she did not start writing poetry (in terms of words on a page, at least) until she was 28.
Maxine writes: Untrammeled by a traditional education in Donne, Milton, Yeats, Eliot, and Pound, Anne was able to strike out alone, like Conrad's secret sharer, for a new destiny. She was grim about her lost years, her lack of a college degree; she read omnivorously and quite innocently whatever came to hand and enticed her, forming her own independent, quirky, and incisive judgments.
and this passage caught my eye and heart. more and more, i think of the education i am receiving right now, currently, today, this minute, all the minutes stacked one on top of the other, self-governed, fueled by private loves, private interests, private fears - my self and body and history as the manual for such a nebulous, hungry, fiery education - and how lucky i am to have it. to have a site, no matter how small or humble, of fearlessness. to read what i want, to not apologise for my attractions, to think, and breathe, and give myself over to an entire day of reading if need be and not feel bad about it. to play and struggle and dance and sing and yell and cry and cry and cry sometimes...
and that it is a gift too, for as embarrassing or strange as it may seem to some, to tear up in the bathroom over the death of a person i never knew some 30 years ago.
and if empathy is an acquired "skill", should that not be one of the pursuits of education, traditional or un?
and i think of the amazing WAVE of hatred for education that seems to be sweeping through the U.S. lately. a tide that continues to rise and rise and rise. and the false definitions and call for "credentials" that come along for the ride, in this, the Land of the Free. this, in a place that looooooves stories of triumph and beating the odds and rooting for the underdog. and this wave spills on to Art too. the definitions and rejection of lived experience as if LIFE has no relevance. really? then what are you making Art for? what are you reading for?
education only "counts" in this country if it is "formal". and the "formality" of an education is decided by whether or not one might be able to win a paycheck of substance once said education is complete (by that defintion, my BFA is NOT a formal education). but the notions of "completion" and "education", to me, seem completely inharmonious. to the point of sad ridiculousness. when does education complete itself? is there really a day when learning ends? i mean, other than death? doctors, surgeons, lawyers, whomevers continue to study their areas of interests. they write and research and explore. at least the good ones do. the ones whom i would trust to cut me open if i needed to be.
and so too, it should be with Art. and the "best" artists and writers have a wide open definition of what art is, how to make it, what tools can be used. the answer is : EVERYTHING. including your life. especially your life. because perspective, perception, ideas are reality. and so why this limit placed on which education is valuable and which is not? look at the work. the work signifies who has wrestled and who has not. who cares and who doesn't. who is blowing steam and who is a steam engine.
i love critical discourse. it is an area in which art is really wrestled with. explored and fought with and cried over and yelled about. it's exciting! the excitement is infectious and wild and important. but critical discourse is an aid to education, not an end.
Anne Sexton's work was loved and hated in equal measure. it still is today, hated and loved. who's right? will that debate really be won by taking a look at credentials? and what credentials does one need to become an artist, to be an artist, other than the extreme hunger and love of the thing? Mr. Wonderful (our lovely Roland Barthes) knew this. he wrote an entire book, all in fragments, about love... what it is to love. an emotion that, at every turn, shatters reason, thwarts logic, and compels the lover to continue beyond the event of heart-break and humiliation. a critic and philosopher shouting PRAISE for the human spirit. and NO ONE, no critic, has yet to say a word back against that book.
because it cannot be refuted.
because the love of knowledge, of ideas, of exploration, of continuing to learn and grow, is LOVE in action. it is a necessary ingredient to becoming "educated", regardless of how one might define that word or go about attaining it.
it is my love that pushes me. and it is my love that quickens me, spurs me on to learn as much as i can, where i am, with the tools available to me. that allow me to see the circumstances of my own life and history as a rich, valuable site of learning and exploration in and of itself. that the books i read, the images that flash in front of my face, provide a new mirror, a new pick-axe with which i can excavate my own experiences and hopefully, maybe, at least try, to provide that same moment of self-recognition in another human being. that unexpected scorch. that moment that throttles my heart and brain and allows me to dig deeper this time, this time, next time, and to create meaning within my own life. that is what artists do. that is what art is good for. that is what an education truly supplies: the ability to make meaning.
and i really cannot emphasize enough what a wonderful education i am acquiring right now! there are so so so many exciting, dedicated, passionate people from all walks of life maintaining such exciting, driven, forward-moving blogs right now. i have a book list that spans pages and pages in my sketch book that is completely derived from reading other artist's and writer's blogs. the discussions that take place in this electronic landscape, in the comment box, are so fertile and interesting! and it's open to anyone and everyone that has an inclination to learn and a computer to borrow! it's amazing! and then, running through a wide vineyard and drawing pictures and making silly little paper dolls, paintings of icebergs and x-rays, trips to the used book store, walking around in the sun and mosquitoes, listening to music, writing my own weirdo poetry, day dreaming and thinking and embracing all that results- the shine and the sour, the whole shebang.
and speaking of the whole shebang, please please PLEASE read Dodie Bellamy's "Barf Manifesto". two lectures transcibed about what writing and art can do and be, the furious "vomit" that may transpire- the aesthetic of the 'good' and the 'bad' swirling together in the same bowl, the multiple temporalities of memory, how they get all mixed-up and overlap, past experience and right-now-this-minute all mixed up, and what a wonderful, insightful, necessary enterprise to allow the "messiness" of human existence to come in to view. it is benevolent. and expands the definition of art, of education, of skill, craft, and knowledge. it gives "permission" to view one's life as valuable, full of meaning, full of spark; and encourages bravery... risk taking, the flowering of one's own mind and life.
i have put the piece away again but it will be back one day. thank you. (((HUG)))
and last night before bed, i thought of Anne Sexton. opened The Complete Poems at random and read "Suicide Note". then this morning, another random ruffling of pages, and i read "That Day". and so caught by her, her story, her persona (?), the cape that swirls around her, i read the introduction by Maxine Kumin, with my coffee, aloud on the floor of the bathroom.
i knew the neighbor kids could hear me as they walked off giggling to school.
but i read the entire thing out loud, unembarrassed, and by the time i got to the end where Maxine - a friend to Anne, so close a friend that maybe, if we ignore ideas about tradition and location and gender, their friendship could be described more accurately as Marriage - speaks of Anne's threat to never send a telegram of her death plan ever again and then succeeds in her attempt just 6 months after making that assertion. and my eyes teared. teared so badly, i couldn't make out the text. i felt overcome with loss and gratitude and awe and just plain ol' love...
she did not start writing poetry (in terms of words on a page, at least) until she was 28.
Maxine writes: Untrammeled by a traditional education in Donne, Milton, Yeats, Eliot, and Pound, Anne was able to strike out alone, like Conrad's secret sharer, for a new destiny. She was grim about her lost years, her lack of a college degree; she read omnivorously and quite innocently whatever came to hand and enticed her, forming her own independent, quirky, and incisive judgments.
and this passage caught my eye and heart. more and more, i think of the education i am receiving right now, currently, today, this minute, all the minutes stacked one on top of the other, self-governed, fueled by private loves, private interests, private fears - my self and body and history as the manual for such a nebulous, hungry, fiery education - and how lucky i am to have it. to have a site, no matter how small or humble, of fearlessness. to read what i want, to not apologise for my attractions, to think, and breathe, and give myself over to an entire day of reading if need be and not feel bad about it. to play and struggle and dance and sing and yell and cry and cry and cry sometimes...
and that it is a gift too, for as embarrassing or strange as it may seem to some, to tear up in the bathroom over the death of a person i never knew some 30 years ago.
and if empathy is an acquired "skill", should that not be one of the pursuits of education, traditional or un?
and i think of the amazing WAVE of hatred for education that seems to be sweeping through the U.S. lately. a tide that continues to rise and rise and rise. and the false definitions and call for "credentials" that come along for the ride, in this, the Land of the Free. this, in a place that looooooves stories of triumph and beating the odds and rooting for the underdog. and this wave spills on to Art too. the definitions and rejection of lived experience as if LIFE has no relevance. really? then what are you making Art for? what are you reading for?
education only "counts" in this country if it is "formal". and the "formality" of an education is decided by whether or not one might be able to win a paycheck of substance once said education is complete (by that defintion, my BFA is NOT a formal education). but the notions of "completion" and "education", to me, seem completely inharmonious. to the point of sad ridiculousness. when does education complete itself? is there really a day when learning ends? i mean, other than death? doctors, surgeons, lawyers, whomevers continue to study their areas of interests. they write and research and explore. at least the good ones do. the ones whom i would trust to cut me open if i needed to be.
and so too, it should be with Art. and the "best" artists and writers have a wide open definition of what art is, how to make it, what tools can be used. the answer is : EVERYTHING. including your life. especially your life. because perspective, perception, ideas are reality. and so why this limit placed on which education is valuable and which is not? look at the work. the work signifies who has wrestled and who has not. who cares and who doesn't. who is blowing steam and who is a steam engine.
i love critical discourse. it is an area in which art is really wrestled with. explored and fought with and cried over and yelled about. it's exciting! the excitement is infectious and wild and important. but critical discourse is an aid to education, not an end.
Anne Sexton's work was loved and hated in equal measure. it still is today, hated and loved. who's right? will that debate really be won by taking a look at credentials? and what credentials does one need to become an artist, to be an artist, other than the extreme hunger and love of the thing? Mr. Wonderful (our lovely Roland Barthes) knew this. he wrote an entire book, all in fragments, about love... what it is to love. an emotion that, at every turn, shatters reason, thwarts logic, and compels the lover to continue beyond the event of heart-break and humiliation. a critic and philosopher shouting PRAISE for the human spirit. and NO ONE, no critic, has yet to say a word back against that book.
because it cannot be refuted.
because the love of knowledge, of ideas, of exploration, of continuing to learn and grow, is LOVE in action. it is a necessary ingredient to becoming "educated", regardless of how one might define that word or go about attaining it.
it is my love that pushes me. and it is my love that quickens me, spurs me on to learn as much as i can, where i am, with the tools available to me. that allow me to see the circumstances of my own life and history as a rich, valuable site of learning and exploration in and of itself. that the books i read, the images that flash in front of my face, provide a new mirror, a new pick-axe with which i can excavate my own experiences and hopefully, maybe, at least try, to provide that same moment of self-recognition in another human being. that unexpected scorch. that moment that throttles my heart and brain and allows me to dig deeper this time, this time, next time, and to create meaning within my own life. that is what artists do. that is what art is good for. that is what an education truly supplies: the ability to make meaning.
and i really cannot emphasize enough what a wonderful education i am acquiring right now! there are so so so many exciting, dedicated, passionate people from all walks of life maintaining such exciting, driven, forward-moving blogs right now. i have a book list that spans pages and pages in my sketch book that is completely derived from reading other artist's and writer's blogs. the discussions that take place in this electronic landscape, in the comment box, are so fertile and interesting! and it's open to anyone and everyone that has an inclination to learn and a computer to borrow! it's amazing! and then, running through a wide vineyard and drawing pictures and making silly little paper dolls, paintings of icebergs and x-rays, trips to the used book store, walking around in the sun and mosquitoes, listening to music, writing my own weirdo poetry, day dreaming and thinking and embracing all that results- the shine and the sour, the whole shebang.
and speaking of the whole shebang, please please PLEASE read Dodie Bellamy's "Barf Manifesto". two lectures transcibed about what writing and art can do and be, the furious "vomit" that may transpire- the aesthetic of the 'good' and the 'bad' swirling together in the same bowl, the multiple temporalities of memory, how they get all mixed-up and overlap, past experience and right-now-this-minute all mixed up, and what a wonderful, insightful, necessary enterprise to allow the "messiness" of human existence to come in to view. it is benevolent. and expands the definition of art, of education, of skill, craft, and knowledge. it gives "permission" to view one's life as valuable, full of meaning, full of spark; and encourages bravery... risk taking, the flowering of one's own mind and life.
Jun 17, 2010
mmmmmmmm
i've been at the canvas since 9. i am present and don't care about the clock. there was something i was going to do today but decided painting all day is a much better decision. i am young today. i am brewing a half pot of coffee. i am thinking about evelyn hampton. this piece in particular. it has a familiar light in it. there is a reverie that swells up, all achy and maroon, from the the repetition of words. and somewhere in there is a piece of my childhood too.
May 12, 2010
literary pursuits
last night, i read the first 100 pages of The Catcher in the Rye again. i haven't read this book in years and years and years. i forgot how funny Holden Caufield is. HILARIOUS! the book actually made me laugh out loud as i sat in bed, curled up in my quilt, trying to wind down after a long and very draining day. it actually accomplished the very opposite. it woke me up. hahaha! and there i was, laughing like a crazy person at a book, and it dawned on me that, the first time i read this, it didn't at all strike me that Holden Caufield is insane. other people have told me the character is nuts, but i don't really pick that up from the story. at least not at this point 100 pages in. and i don't remember anything about how the book ends so i guess and just wait and see if he gets crazy all of a sudden. although... there are similarities actually between The Catcher in the Rye and The Bell Jar... the main character's distraction and obsession... distracted obsession. getting derailed by small appearances in the world and turns of phrase and the way someone moves... they get locked up by small things. thwarted. it's like The Bell Jar for dudes. hahahaha! because i don't think The Bell Jar is all that crazy either even though it is the story of a young woman's decent in to madness. the description of the narrator, how she perceives things, don't seen crazy to me. they seem sensitive. a deep sensitivity that is easily harmed by the world... prone to feeling "outside" or Other. soft-hearted and sharp-minded can be a painful combination. it leads to a lot of confusion and agony. but i don't think that it spells crazy. there's still 100+ pages to go though so maybe my opinion will change. i thought it'd be good to re-read it since Mr. Salinger died recently... a way to pay my respects. and also, temper the information i've been letting in to my brain since the start of the year. i've been very focused on female writers and i thought it'd be a good idea to get some men in the bunch. J.D. Salinger seemed a perfect fit.
Apr 19, 2010
i posted this poem last year for National Poetry Month and i don't care...
because it is RAD!
T: Karla Faye Tucker
Karla died a little death
each time her pickaxe fell.
All that coming made her deaf;
she'd killed & had her fill.
A Texas warden took her in
(the mug-shot turned out nice).
Karla Faye got born again
to give her life back twice.
-Jennifer Colin Scaife
T: Karla Faye Tucker
Karla died a little death
each time her pickaxe fell.
All that coming made her deaf;
she'd killed & had her fill.
A Texas warden took her in
(the mug-shot turned out nice).
Karla Faye got born again
to give her life back twice.
-Jennifer Colin Scaife
Apr 7, 2010
thanking my lucky stars
"A Lover's Discourse" by Roland Barthes (my forever mr. wonderful) is the best possible thing i could be reading right now. it pulls together, in such sensuous ways, all the things i've been reading, all the things i've been thinking, all the ideas, each splinter. and his eloquence is breath-taking. hard edged and shining. it is just like reading a book of poetry. it IS a work of poetry. and resistance. VIVA! he charts the site where all logic crumbles. logic falls away, unusable. reason becomes a frail thing in this land.
a fear.
an exaltation.
gorgeous. and every word, a true a word.
i have tried to pick a favorite passage to share here. i fail. there is no favorite if favorite means 'only one'. every word is necessary.
a fear.
an exaltation.
gorgeous. and every word, a true a word.
i have tried to pick a favorite passage to share here. i fail. there is no favorite if favorite means 'only one'. every word is necessary.
Apr 1, 2010
IT'S THAT TIME AGAIN!
april is national poetry month and a damn fine excuse to read, write, think, and play with words, explore language, explore images, and get deep in the wrestling, rustling, torture that is ART. YAY!!! and i like to take advantage of april this way. LOVE, in fact! and so... prepare yourself! everyday, i'll be posting a poem here. sometimes one of my own. and i think i'll even commit some poems to memory this time around. it's been years since i've memorized a poem and april is a good month with which to practice commitment, fearlessness. poetry is very much engaged with risk. and also with the absurd. what better month is there to make an ass of yourself for the sake of getting closer to all those secret aspirations? :)
i think poetry is one of the best things on the planet. i really do. and it's everywhere. it is abundant and such a strange, painful, sharp form of beauty.
feel free, this entire month, to post anything poetry related in the comments section. feel free to email me if you want to discuss poetry and art/writing concerns. and PLEASE feel free to turn me on to your favorite poets and writers and artists. in fact I AM BEGGING YOU TO! i've said it so many times here that i think a painting and a poem are basically the same thing.
so lets kick off this poetry party with one of my all-time favorite poets, the undeniable Sharon Olds. in fact, this might be the poem i'll memorize.
THE UNBORN
Sometimes I can almost see, around our heads,
like gnats around a streetlight in summer,
the children we could have,
the glimmer of them.
Sometimes i feel them waiting, dozing
in some antechamber- servants, half-
listening for the bell.
Sometimes I see them lying like love letters
in the Dead Letter Office.
And sometimes, like tonight, by some black
second sight I can feel just one of them
standing on the edge of a cliff by the sea
in the dark, stretching its arms out
desperately to me.
(from Satan Says)
i think poetry is one of the best things on the planet. i really do. and it's everywhere. it is abundant and such a strange, painful, sharp form of beauty.
feel free, this entire month, to post anything poetry related in the comments section. feel free to email me if you want to discuss poetry and art/writing concerns. and PLEASE feel free to turn me on to your favorite poets and writers and artists. in fact I AM BEGGING YOU TO! i've said it so many times here that i think a painting and a poem are basically the same thing.
so lets kick off this poetry party with one of my all-time favorite poets, the undeniable Sharon Olds. in fact, this might be the poem i'll memorize.
THE UNBORN
Sometimes I can almost see, around our heads,
like gnats around a streetlight in summer,
the children we could have,
the glimmer of them.
Sometimes i feel them waiting, dozing
in some antechamber- servants, half-
listening for the bell.
Sometimes I see them lying like love letters
in the Dead Letter Office.
And sometimes, like tonight, by some black
second sight I can feel just one of them
standing on the edge of a cliff by the sea
in the dark, stretching its arms out
desperately to me.
(from Satan Says)
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