.
sifting through pages, the never-ending pile of papers, the abandoned manuscript(s), the poetry collection, paragraphs cut up, rearranged and taped back together again; a mangy, coffee stained scroll. gorgeous. i tuck it into the box that holds my diaries. i close the lid. i close my eyes against the sting of tears. how badly i want to lay around today and read these things. especially with my back such a stiff mess of pain. later. another day. one fine day, it'll be such a gift when this box comes back home to me. for now, a hard patience. for now, a closed lid. for now, vicodin and ice. i'm hopeful that tomorrow i
won't need the crutch of this little opiate but today i do. the injury
wins. i am a snail. i do what i can 20 minutes at a time and then
i reward myself with 20 minutes on ice. i must finish the task of sorting, boxing, throwing out and making way. yesterday, such an existential crisis about clothes. i looked
in my closet and thought, "who am i going to be now??? i'm paving the
way for someone new. will this new girl still need this sequin
jacket???" ha! i leave clothes on the street. they disappear quickly. more sketches and half finished drawings find their way in to the recycle bin. suddenly i hate all my earrings and i leave them in a big pile on the kitchen table for whomever may want them. i pawn off my nail-polish and perfume on my roommate, sara. i pawn
off my big binder of cds on my roommate, ben. i'm sure i'll find
something to pawn off on seth too. i leave a silk pocket square hanging on his door-knob. what to do with these old rosaries? what to do with this huge mirror? what to do with the ache in my heart? this old red trumpet that wants to blare and blast and scream. dear friends, what am i without your hands on my shoulders? i am going to miss everyone so much. i close my eyes against the sting of tears. my 20 minutes are up.
.
Showing posts with label identity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label identity. Show all posts
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 22, 2015
of death and shame
.
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.
.
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.
.
Jan 17, 2015
it isn't vanity
.
a deeply held belief i adopted during childhood:
i am singular and will go through life that way.
i am trying to uproot it and it is very difficult.
scary as fuck.
the only place i feel entirely safe is within myself.
but that is a nebulous world.
mutable and full of anxious longing.
i take pictures of myself to prove that i exist.
not to prove it to you, to prove it to ME.
these shapes and angles and senses.
i take pictures of myself so that i can look and see and believe that i am
here, real,
walking and breathing along with the rest of you.
an attempt, maybe, to unhinge this belief in my own singularity;
to disrupt my distrust and make a window
in to (or out of) my own nebulous world.
.
a deeply held belief i adopted during childhood:
i am singular and will go through life that way.
i am trying to uproot it and it is very difficult.
scary as fuck.
the only place i feel entirely safe is within myself.
but that is a nebulous world.
mutable and full of anxious longing.
i take pictures of myself to prove that i exist.
not to prove it to you, to prove it to ME.
these shapes and angles and senses.
i take pictures of myself so that i can look and see and believe that i am
here, real,
walking and breathing along with the rest of you.
an attempt, maybe, to unhinge this belief in my own singularity;
to disrupt my distrust and make a window
in to (or out of) my own nebulous world.
.
Oct 4, 2013
trying
.
"I believe in the dignity of each of the different levels of the self. I don't want to lose any of them. To me they each exist simultaneously, not hierarchically... One is not better than another."
-Francesco Clemente
i read this statement in an old art history book of mine a week or so ago and i've been thinking of it ever since. i left the book open on the kitchen table to force myself to think of it. not just think of it but deal with it. i re-read it as i eat my late-night dinners and early-afternoon breakfasts. i like this statement and am drawn to it in a way that one is drawn to a puzzle or a riddle or an idol, anything that puts a person in a state of uncomfortable wonder. i'm drawn to it almost on the level of pornography... attracted to the image but made aware of my inadequacy before it. attracted and repelled simultaneously because i don't know how to achieve the thing i am agreeing with.
i want to be as welcoming, as accepting, as fluid and open and non-judgemental. i want to be as wise and caring... but i have no clue how to stop judging the individual components of my Self. Based on Clemente's statement, one's sexuality hold an equal value as one's spirituality or intellect. one's talent for painting is no more important than one's talent for gentleness. one's talent for gentleness is no more important than one's ability to cut through the shit and take care of business. if his statement is correct and all these components exist simultaneously (and are accepted, not submerged), then they operate in unison. one's ability to be gentle or direct is also, then, a factor in one's ability to paint or write or give a good handshake. the sensual component of one's Self snuggles up against the spiritual, like a cuddle-puddle of traits that all benefit from colliding with one another.
why can't i accept this? or better yet, why is my acceptance of this so rocky? is it an issue of faith? and if so, faith in what? or in whom? do i lack faith in myself?
i've felt so distracted lately. and alone within my distraction. i've been feeling quite singular and confused. i go back and re-read my diary from when i was in Berlin. i go back further and read the things i wrote at the beginning of the year. i look for some sort of crumb of insight that will set me straight and make my happiness a more solid, reliable thing rather than being so flimsy and fleeting. i have so much to be happy about, so why aren't i? why is it so hard to maintain happiness?
i've been guilty of submerging aspects of my personality for all the same stupid reasons anyone does such a thing- usually for the sake of a relationship, even if that relationship is with one's family or friends.
or maybe it has nothing to do with that at all? i'm very open about who i am and rarely feel like i need to hide who i truly am. there are very few occasions where i feel sheepish and afraid of another person's opinion of me. maybe i simply need to accept the fact of my sadness? is sadness the thing that i am hiding? the thing i am refusing to see as possessing its own worth and value? like most americans, i've been taught that sadness is something to hide. for some odd reason, people think it means you're ungrateful for the goodness that exists in your life; as if happiness and gratitude are synonyms. sadness is somehow lumped in with selfishness and, as we all know (especially those of us raised in any sort of judeo-christian model), "selfish" is the absolute worst thing a person can be. especially if that person is female. growing up, it was one of the absolute worst things to be labeled. so much so that my siblings and i still wrestle with knowing the difference between self-love and selfishness. it is not an easy distinction for me to make. the line between the two is not at all clear. perhaps that is the result of degrading certain parts of oneself...
what i DO know is that i don't want to limit myself and i don't want to shelter myself. i've most certainly accomplished both by letting a hierarchy exist within me. i've been trained to see one trait as "good", another as "bad", and still another as "worthless". i've compartmentalized my own pysyche and labeled the parts rather than seeing them as having a definite worth and use. i have not let all the parts of myself exist simultaneously. i've squelched some and nourished others, all the while hoping to feel like a Whole human being. but how could it be possible to feel complete when one is constantly performing some sort of on-going weeding of the Self rather than accepting the myriad components of one's being. why can't i accept fragmentation AS SUCH and not see it as a negative? why not see it as a fertile territory of change and opportunity? a field of ever-changing, ever-expanding possibilities that offer a plethora of lens through which to view the world and others? why encourage the continuation of binary thinking when i could attempt to nourish a multiplicity of outlooks and ways to think about the world? perhaps my sadness is simply a proof of my sensitivity? my love of the world? and THAT is an absolute necessity to my art practice.
in 2 weeks i'll hit my 3rd anniversary of being a non-smoker. i quit smoking after 16 years of very zealous, dedicated addiction. i loved to smoke. i truly did. what helped me the most when i finally decided to give it up was a trait that is generally though of as "bad": vanity. i harnessed the power of my own vanity (fear of premature aging, crow's feet around my eyes, yellow teeth, etc) to conquer my addiction. it worked amazingly well. and so even something that is generally thought to be a negative attribute served me well. everything has a value. everything can be used for a positive end or toward achieving a fuller experience of the world. i know this. why can't my mind and heart hold on to this knowledge? why am i so inconstant when it comes to my opinion of myself and my life? i need to find a way to abolish the hierarchies within me.
.
"I believe in the dignity of each of the different levels of the self. I don't want to lose any of them. To me they each exist simultaneously, not hierarchically... One is not better than another."
-Francesco Clemente
i read this statement in an old art history book of mine a week or so ago and i've been thinking of it ever since. i left the book open on the kitchen table to force myself to think of it. not just think of it but deal with it. i re-read it as i eat my late-night dinners and early-afternoon breakfasts. i like this statement and am drawn to it in a way that one is drawn to a puzzle or a riddle or an idol, anything that puts a person in a state of uncomfortable wonder. i'm drawn to it almost on the level of pornography... attracted to the image but made aware of my inadequacy before it. attracted and repelled simultaneously because i don't know how to achieve the thing i am agreeing with.
i want to be as welcoming, as accepting, as fluid and open and non-judgemental. i want to be as wise and caring... but i have no clue how to stop judging the individual components of my Self. Based on Clemente's statement, one's sexuality hold an equal value as one's spirituality or intellect. one's talent for painting is no more important than one's talent for gentleness. one's talent for gentleness is no more important than one's ability to cut through the shit and take care of business. if his statement is correct and all these components exist simultaneously (and are accepted, not submerged), then they operate in unison. one's ability to be gentle or direct is also, then, a factor in one's ability to paint or write or give a good handshake. the sensual component of one's Self snuggles up against the spiritual, like a cuddle-puddle of traits that all benefit from colliding with one another.
why can't i accept this? or better yet, why is my acceptance of this so rocky? is it an issue of faith? and if so, faith in what? or in whom? do i lack faith in myself?
i've felt so distracted lately. and alone within my distraction. i've been feeling quite singular and confused. i go back and re-read my diary from when i was in Berlin. i go back further and read the things i wrote at the beginning of the year. i look for some sort of crumb of insight that will set me straight and make my happiness a more solid, reliable thing rather than being so flimsy and fleeting. i have so much to be happy about, so why aren't i? why is it so hard to maintain happiness?
i've been guilty of submerging aspects of my personality for all the same stupid reasons anyone does such a thing- usually for the sake of a relationship, even if that relationship is with one's family or friends.
or maybe it has nothing to do with that at all? i'm very open about who i am and rarely feel like i need to hide who i truly am. there are very few occasions where i feel sheepish and afraid of another person's opinion of me. maybe i simply need to accept the fact of my sadness? is sadness the thing that i am hiding? the thing i am refusing to see as possessing its own worth and value? like most americans, i've been taught that sadness is something to hide. for some odd reason, people think it means you're ungrateful for the goodness that exists in your life; as if happiness and gratitude are synonyms. sadness is somehow lumped in with selfishness and, as we all know (especially those of us raised in any sort of judeo-christian model), "selfish" is the absolute worst thing a person can be. especially if that person is female. growing up, it was one of the absolute worst things to be labeled. so much so that my siblings and i still wrestle with knowing the difference between self-love and selfishness. it is not an easy distinction for me to make. the line between the two is not at all clear. perhaps that is the result of degrading certain parts of oneself...
what i DO know is that i don't want to limit myself and i don't want to shelter myself. i've most certainly accomplished both by letting a hierarchy exist within me. i've been trained to see one trait as "good", another as "bad", and still another as "worthless". i've compartmentalized my own pysyche and labeled the parts rather than seeing them as having a definite worth and use. i have not let all the parts of myself exist simultaneously. i've squelched some and nourished others, all the while hoping to feel like a Whole human being. but how could it be possible to feel complete when one is constantly performing some sort of on-going weeding of the Self rather than accepting the myriad components of one's being. why can't i accept fragmentation AS SUCH and not see it as a negative? why not see it as a fertile territory of change and opportunity? a field of ever-changing, ever-expanding possibilities that offer a plethora of lens through which to view the world and others? why encourage the continuation of binary thinking when i could attempt to nourish a multiplicity of outlooks and ways to think about the world? perhaps my sadness is simply a proof of my sensitivity? my love of the world? and THAT is an absolute necessity to my art practice.
in 2 weeks i'll hit my 3rd anniversary of being a non-smoker. i quit smoking after 16 years of very zealous, dedicated addiction. i loved to smoke. i truly did. what helped me the most when i finally decided to give it up was a trait that is generally though of as "bad": vanity. i harnessed the power of my own vanity (fear of premature aging, crow's feet around my eyes, yellow teeth, etc) to conquer my addiction. it worked amazingly well. and so even something that is generally thought to be a negative attribute served me well. everything has a value. everything can be used for a positive end or toward achieving a fuller experience of the world. i know this. why can't my mind and heart hold on to this knowledge? why am i so inconstant when it comes to my opinion of myself and my life? i need to find a way to abolish the hierarchies within me.
.
Sep 19, 2013
look again
.
during my breaks in french class, i have a habit of going to the bathroom just to take pictures of myself in the long, dirty mirror. i don't have a full length mirror at home so i rarely see my entire self all at once. i am always broken up in to bits and pieces; a fractured image, shattered glances. or maybe i'm just fucking vain. ;)
but i return to the mirror expecting to see something different. i'm not exactly sure what or why. maybe i've never learned to trust my own image. there's something the mirror lies about or simply can't reflect- the changeability of my face. my sister has this quality too. we look like totally different people in different slants of light or even simply from different angles. each side of the face is totally different from the other. despite my absolute love for it, i have an absolute lack of symmetry.
but that isn't really it. it's the desire for my outsides to match my insides and i'm not sure that they do. for however open i might seem here, there is so much i keep quite and safe from the light. there is so much i do not share. not with anyone. it all lands in the diary and then slowly is reworked in to drawings or poems or blog-posts or blankets. this morning, becca and i texted back and forth about autumn's slow arrival and the call to spend long evenings in bed knitting(her) and crocheting (me). we talked about the urge to return to sweater-making, the ritual of black wool twisted around a hook, and the knots that work together to comprise a solitary work... a piece of clothing which one cannot buy, but only make for oneself. there is a comfort and a loneliness contained in such an act, in such a display of patience. the ache is belied. and though i may wear all my secrets emblazoned on the tshirts and sweaters i make for myself, when i cry it is for an audience of One. i have the only seat.
it's an image of me i no longer offer face to face. i will be silent and still. no flutter of heartache, no betrayal of need or fear.
i like the blurry photograph in the middle the best.
i'll admit i like looking at myself. i like seeing which parts of my face i inherited from my mother. though my lips aren't quite as full as hers were, i have her mouth. i glance at my posture and can see my father standing there. i have his calves and shoulders. i have my mother's eyes (all her children do) crowned by my father's evil-arch eyebrows. i have his pale skin and her freckles.
Jun 1, 2013
anti-solace
let me crawl back under my rock now. let me crawl back to where i came from. my coils of black wool and ink, graphite dust stuck to my feet, smudged across my face, empty bleeding heart dragging its ugly shape and shame across the page. the inches are horrible. each scratch of the pen, an agony. each inch of wool twisted into knots, a horror. but it is the only repair that has ever worked. it is the only repair i trust, the only truth i know. i bring my two hands back to myself. at least for a time. at least until i can see straight. no longer interested in reaching toward the world, toward unknown doors. at least not until it is time to pack a bag. i see now that what i've been accused of is true. i talk too good a game. i take pictures of myself wearing a cap that says SLUT across the front and everyone automatically believes it. they see my red lips and how seldom i become upset. they see how independent i am and somehow, inexplicably to me, confuse me with being cold. i am not cold. nowhere close. my brashness is a moral responsibility to my own life... to live as fully and as wholly as i can manage. but i am not callous and i am not flagrant and i am not without compass or standard.
but fuck it. what do i know? i don't know a damn thing. it's why i want to live. in order to find out. something. anything. and it could quite easily be that it's my mirror that shines askew.
baby's first passport arrived in today's mail. i kissed it and kissed it and wanted to cry. it is sitting next to me on my bed right this minute. it is a gem. it is my most sacred, most valued, most loved possession. today, it trumps every piece of art i own. everything pales in comparison to this little book: a testament to faith and struggle and belief.
in 4 weeks i'll be back in my beloved NYC for a few days before hoping on a plane and heading to europe for the very first time. my very first trip over seas. i am beside myself. i can't find the words. i'll find them in europe, i suppose! ha! Becca and i stop in London for a night and then the next evening, on the 4th of July, our Independence day (and the 1 year anniversary of when i had my passport photo taken), we fly into Berlin. a few days later, we will take a train from Berlin to Paris to see our beloved Rammstein play in Nancy, France. after that? hahahaaa! there is absolutely no way to know! but when (if?) i return, i fly back to new york for a few days before heading back to Oakland. i'm sure i'll spend the first few days back crying, forlorn and lonely and in total anguish, in my bed before having to tie the apron around my waist once more, put on my bright lipstick, and tell jokes table-side.
i am lucky in that i will have a job to return to. i am lucky in that i like my job. i enjoy being around people and i am very good at creating an atmosphere of warmth and ease. i'm good at being a waiter and, come July, it is a profession that will take me around the world. well, at least half way. :) but i'm telling you, these next 4 weeks cannot go by fast enough. the passed two days i have been crawling out of my skin. i have never wanted to hop on a plane so badly in my entire life.
i am not afraid of knowing the world. i am afraid of NOT knowing it. i am not afraid of people, not even if i know i will suffer as a result. i am more afraid of dying without ever having known what real love is. i can tell you, right now, that i do not believe i have ever experienced it. not on the receiving end anyway. not a healthy love. it seems definitions for love run the gamut and i am a dunce trying to figure out what the fuck i'm supposed to be doing and saying in the midst of it.
i'm supposed to be making art in the midst of it.
i'm supposed to be writing.
at very least, i know what my life is for.
but fuck it. what do i know? i don't know a damn thing. it's why i want to live. in order to find out. something. anything. and it could quite easily be that it's my mirror that shines askew.
what is it about me that makes people seem to believe that i have no feelings?
i've cried three times this week. everyday, for 3 days running, a small horror found me. and even in the moment i told myself to feel blessed and lucky because i haven't had a bad run of luck or days of pain in so long it seems. everything has been going pretty well. no major complaints. but i could feel it all along brewing in the background, simmering below my naive feet. i've expected it for quite some time now that my brashness, my good game would lead directly to the wind being knocked out of me. i've been going against my better judgement in certain ways because i just became so damn tired of loneliness. i became so tired, painfully tired, of not allowing myself to know the world and to know other humans. but i knew it was coming. i knew i would wake up, humiliated and stupefied, and feel the urge to run away from the life i have here in Oakland. and maybe it's necessary? maybe it's the kick i need? i have wondered while crying if i should try to feel thankful for this pain... it untethers me, afterall. there is no longer any reason to drag my feet. there are no anvils around my neck. there are no gentle hands to lay me down and smooth my hair back across my forehead.
i wake up this morning and a Great Goodness finds me...
baby's first passport arrived in today's mail. i kissed it and kissed it and wanted to cry. it is sitting next to me on my bed right this minute. it is a gem. it is my most sacred, most valued, most loved possession. today, it trumps every piece of art i own. everything pales in comparison to this little book: a testament to faith and struggle and belief.
in 4 weeks i'll be back in my beloved NYC for a few days before hoping on a plane and heading to europe for the very first time. my very first trip over seas. i am beside myself. i can't find the words. i'll find them in europe, i suppose! ha! Becca and i stop in London for a night and then the next evening, on the 4th of July, our Independence day (and the 1 year anniversary of when i had my passport photo taken), we fly into Berlin. a few days later, we will take a train from Berlin to Paris to see our beloved Rammstein play in Nancy, France. after that? hahahaaa! there is absolutely no way to know! but when (if?) i return, i fly back to new york for a few days before heading back to Oakland. i'm sure i'll spend the first few days back crying, forlorn and lonely and in total anguish, in my bed before having to tie the apron around my waist once more, put on my bright lipstick, and tell jokes table-side.
i am lucky in that i will have a job to return to. i am lucky in that i like my job. i enjoy being around people and i am very good at creating an atmosphere of warmth and ease. i'm good at being a waiter and, come July, it is a profession that will take me around the world. well, at least half way. :) but i'm telling you, these next 4 weeks cannot go by fast enough. the passed two days i have been crawling out of my skin. i have never wanted to hop on a plane so badly in my entire life.
i am not afraid of knowing the world. i am afraid of NOT knowing it. i am not afraid of people, not even if i know i will suffer as a result. i am more afraid of dying without ever having known what real love is. i can tell you, right now, that i do not believe i have ever experienced it. not on the receiving end anyway. not a healthy love. it seems definitions for love run the gamut and i am a dunce trying to figure out what the fuck i'm supposed to be doing and saying in the midst of it.
i'm supposed to be making art in the midst of it.
i'm supposed to be writing.
at very least, i know what my life is for.
Mar 12, 2013
Jan 23, 2013
investigate, over and over again
.
i was given a camera for my birthday back in september. i am experimenting. it feels fantastic.
untitled self portraits
8" x 12" each
half frame photography collage
angela simione, 2013
.
i was given a camera for my birthday back in september. i am experimenting. it feels fantastic.
untitled self portraits
8" x 12" each
half frame photography collage
angela simione, 2013
.
Jan 16, 2013
.JPG)
Jan 3, 2013
notebook self-portrait 2012
here they are! each and every one of my lovelies, in order from first to last: the notebooks of 2012.
Dec 7, 2012
the way it is
i could send you naked pictures of myself to your iphone and you still won't have the first hint of who i am. or will you? am i just a dumb, drunk whore? am i just a pitiful, needy human? aren't we all? fuck all the pompous parading of pride. no one has any pride in the face of desire. no one. not one drop. not one drip.
Oct 22, 2012
to be alive...
the streets are wet and black. a slow rain is coming down. i am wearing one of the first sweaters i ever made. how strange to think of where i was then, and how i spent my nights and days. even my body is a different size. george michael sings in my ear (again and again) and a faithful Greyhound rests at my side. i think this might be the first time its rained since i moved in to my white room.
what can i give you tonight? or any other night that might make up for my arrogant absences? what can i give you that might mend the tear that i can't help but deal with my sad silences? sometimes i need such a grand depth of space around me, such a deep, abiding stillness. i slink low in to my warm bath of solitude and i do not surface until i have to. i languish in it. i luxuriate. and then i go to work. i look at the calendar and think of friends i haven't called and the skin i haven't touched in so long, the hair i haven't brushed and the glasses i haven't raised to the honor of such wonderful people in so long. i hole up with my own projects and beverages. and i suppose we all do it. we all get lost in out own present tenses.
over dinner tonight with new friends i admitted that, now, a little more than 7 years after relocating to the Bay Area certain home-town friendships are finally starting to deteriorate. it is sad because we've managed to hold on for so long. we've managed to call each other on a regular enough basis and still say i love you but so much changed when i became single at the beginning of the year. a renewal of sorts. and so much changed after going to New York: a birth that i knew would occur. so many people have commented on how "alive" i seem since having gone. so many people have commented on how much happier and stronger i seem. and what they see is real. i deal out a lot of my vulnerabilities here in this electric square and i willingly supply evidence of the existence of my own excitable, quavering heart; nevertheless, i have become quite brave this year. it's an event that surprises the shit out of me. i've wanted to be brave my entire life. i've wanted to know the definition of courage for so long. it is totally different from what i assumed it would be.
i am finally myself. i am finally allowing for change and experience. i am finally allowing for pleasure, finally able to accept the pleasure of risk. for the first time in years, i am enjoying my daily life. i don't feel like crying as i walk closer and closer to my front door. i don't feel like, with each step, i am telling lie after lie. i look at the sky and think of my mother and wish she could see me now. she would be so happy for me. she would tell me how well i'm doing and how proud she is of me. she would be envious of my trip to new york and we would talk for hours about it. she would want to hear all about testing perfume at Lord & Taylor and how delicious the hotdogs are at the food carts all over manhattan. she would want to hear all about walking through the lower east side at 4 am and the dead pigeon i accidentally kicked. she would commend me for having found the courage to stake claim to my own life. she would ask me to speak to her in german just so she could hear the language of her favorite land in the entire world, a place she always wanted to return to. she had been stationed there when she was 19 years old and always longed to return. "there's such magic there", she said, and in so many ways, that is where my family begins- our strange, careening story. we've all become so different. we share such similar stories but walk such distinct roads.
november is coming and, with it, an election, a concert, and another trip to beautiful New York. i am on pins and needles waiting for the first of the month to arrive. a new adventure is breathing down my neck and i cannot wait to turn and collect its kiss.
what can i give you tonight? or any other night that might make up for my arrogant absences? what can i give you that might mend the tear that i can't help but deal with my sad silences? sometimes i need such a grand depth of space around me, such a deep, abiding stillness. i slink low in to my warm bath of solitude and i do not surface until i have to. i languish in it. i luxuriate. and then i go to work. i look at the calendar and think of friends i haven't called and the skin i haven't touched in so long, the hair i haven't brushed and the glasses i haven't raised to the honor of such wonderful people in so long. i hole up with my own projects and beverages. and i suppose we all do it. we all get lost in out own present tenses.
over dinner tonight with new friends i admitted that, now, a little more than 7 years after relocating to the Bay Area certain home-town friendships are finally starting to deteriorate. it is sad because we've managed to hold on for so long. we've managed to call each other on a regular enough basis and still say i love you but so much changed when i became single at the beginning of the year. a renewal of sorts. and so much changed after going to New York: a birth that i knew would occur. so many people have commented on how "alive" i seem since having gone. so many people have commented on how much happier and stronger i seem. and what they see is real. i deal out a lot of my vulnerabilities here in this electric square and i willingly supply evidence of the existence of my own excitable, quavering heart; nevertheless, i have become quite brave this year. it's an event that surprises the shit out of me. i've wanted to be brave my entire life. i've wanted to know the definition of courage for so long. it is totally different from what i assumed it would be.
i am finally myself. i am finally allowing for change and experience. i am finally allowing for pleasure, finally able to accept the pleasure of risk. for the first time in years, i am enjoying my daily life. i don't feel like crying as i walk closer and closer to my front door. i don't feel like, with each step, i am telling lie after lie. i look at the sky and think of my mother and wish she could see me now. she would be so happy for me. she would tell me how well i'm doing and how proud she is of me. she would be envious of my trip to new york and we would talk for hours about it. she would want to hear all about testing perfume at Lord & Taylor and how delicious the hotdogs are at the food carts all over manhattan. she would want to hear all about walking through the lower east side at 4 am and the dead pigeon i accidentally kicked. she would commend me for having found the courage to stake claim to my own life. she would ask me to speak to her in german just so she could hear the language of her favorite land in the entire world, a place she always wanted to return to. she had been stationed there when she was 19 years old and always longed to return. "there's such magic there", she said, and in so many ways, that is where my family begins- our strange, careening story. we've all become so different. we share such similar stories but walk such distinct roads.
november is coming and, with it, an election, a concert, and another trip to beautiful New York. i am on pins and needles waiting for the first of the month to arrive. a new adventure is breathing down my neck and i cannot wait to turn and collect its kiss.
Oct 5, 2012
belief
we stay up late. we discuss our theories. we discuss the theories of all the big dogs and i count my blessings. then, i count how many shots i've poured. i count how many books i've read this year (far fewer than the last) and i count how many times i can get a raised eyebrow out of a man.
my roommates head to bed and i hang new pictures on the wall. pollen filters in through my open window and i listen to the neighbors fighting. i put on a slow song of romantic redemption. i take off my shoes. i take off my socks. i pull the braid out of my hair.
earlier, we discussed the power of images. we discussed the power of persona and watched Lady Gaga videos. i played my favorite and said: "she understands visual pleasure. she knows the exact moment when taboo begins."
that picture up top: that image is me and it is not me. i am that girl sometimes. and sometimes that is the truest self i can express. sometimes i am a girl of fishnets and wild hair and all i want is for someone to notice that i need a nice, good slap. but there are reasons for this and those reasons matter. those reasons are not contained in the photographs i present. there is the allusion. there is the heartache. it is spelled out in vivid pink. it is scrawled all over me. but i don't want to have to go on and on about it. sometimes i just want a reckoning and i don't want to have to argue for it. just do what needs to be done.
that picture up top: it is me and it is not me. sometimes i am not that girl at all. sometimes i am too angry for romance, too absorbed in my own slow rage. i am too interested in my own steam and decorum to consider the desires of another. leave me alone. i like my lonely road just fine. i need no hand to hold. god died for me the second my mother did. and let me tell you, i've never felt so fucking free. i twirl my hair and paint my nails and stare you in the face. i don't owe anyone anything and i plan to keep it that way.
that picture up top: it is me and it is not me.
Sep 29, 2012
friday night bullshit
listening to The Smiths and enjoying a spectacularly poured greyhound here in my white room (zum wohl!) with a burning shoulder from spending the last several hours hunched over a painting. these text pieces look so simple but a tremendous amount of labor actually goes in to them. all my work seems to be that way. my friend Lea once said "your work is so devotional". her comment has stuck with me.
i am a devotee, to be sure, but devoted to what? the rules change quicker than i can name them. it's gotten to the point where i no longer care about rules at all. this damn inner compass of mine gives me enough trouble. i've made a point of ignoring it lately and just leaving myself open to the strange throes of exploration. how else will i know what i'm made of? how else will i know anything? how else will make art? risk, as such, is a definite necessity. i've felt so scared of so much for so long. i've felt afraid of being myself. but i'm at the point now where feeling afraid of something actually becomes the reason to explore that particular something or do that particular something or cultivate an environment where i have to somehow explore the fear. fear becomes the reason for a lot of things these days but never not to do something.
funny enough, the result is that one begins to be afraid of very little. maybe i am devoted to the questions? maybe i am devoted to the attempt? to understand anything. to understand one's self.
am i getting too philosophic? is it too late for that? wait, it's friday night/saturday morning. it's not too late for anything! and aside from that, it's never too late for philosophy! philosophy is a necessity. it's right up there with food and air. so let's get philosophic. tell me your secrets and what the fuck you expect out of this life. the clock is ticking, friend. get on it. fear is a reason to DO IT. i look at this body of mine and i watch it dying. people think i'm so much younger than i am. in some ways, they're right. in some ways i am much younger than i actually am. but i am watching this body age, for however imperceptible that may be to others, and it is a huge motivating force in my life. i look at myself and i see my mama somewhere under this skin. her genetics, her softness, her absolute kindness...
fuck.
talking about her makes me want to cry and marry the first person who will ask me. our fairy tales are hard at work in me too, i promise, i've just decided to ignore that shit and hold out for the best. or atleast the most honest expression of self i can manage.
but my mother... she's dead. and i feel her beauty everyday. it is such a deep pain. i try to think of my life along the same lines of hers. i ask myself "what if you die at 55, kid?"
and so: i bought a ticket back to new york. 7 weeks to go, friends. 7 weeks. and this time i plan to go all alone. i will walk and walk and walk and see as much art as i can. i will write in the bars and cafes. i'll do things that i am afraid of doing. it matters. i plan to move there in the spring. i have 6 months to save as much money as i can but, regardless, i'm going. even if i end up arriving penniless, i'm going. this next trip back is more about exploring what daily life would be like rather than being on vacation. i re-read my NY diary tonight over sushi at my favorite oaktown sushi bar and recalled how instantly at home i felt in that city. god, it overtook me. i loved it the second i saw it. i loved it the entire time i was there. i was heartbroken at the thought of leaving. my last day in NY was a rough one. i really didn't want to leave. it took all i had not to cancel my flight. it really did. i have to go back and let her have her way with me. i have to follow my own trembling, romantic, boisterous heart. our time is too short.
but let's not get too serious. the brevity of our moment is also a reason to participate in exquisite simplicities and sensual pleasures. i'd like to offer a very loud and public THANK YOU to Lady Gaga for making my life infinitely better by making me smell this fucking fantastic! her perfume is amazing. seriously. i test drove it at Lord & Taylor in manhattan but waited til i got home to buy it. i've already spritzed an inch of the stuff and i've only had it a week. good thing i bought the big bottle.
and speaking of Lady Gaga, there's this really special thing i keep resisting making mention of here: jack halberstam's new book GAGA FEMINISM. oh looky, looky! whose image is that on the cover? awwww shit!!! yep, you guessed it! yours truly! and i am absolutely honored! SO HONORED to have been asked by such a thoughtful and exciting theorist as Jack to use one of my drawings on the cover of this book! and also SO HONORED to participate in the feminist/queer discussions of our age. it's a major feather in my cap that jack liked this drawing. period. and i am absolutely honored to, by proxy, engage with Gaga's discussion of identity. i am a lucky bitch, to say the least.
and if you are at all wavering on whether or not to buy this book, don't! it is spectacularly written! i'm only about half way through and i am IN LOVE! GET IT! GET IT! GET IT!!!!! you definitely won't regret it.
and now back to painting and drinking greyhounds.
all my love,
angela.
.
i am a devotee, to be sure, but devoted to what? the rules change quicker than i can name them. it's gotten to the point where i no longer care about rules at all. this damn inner compass of mine gives me enough trouble. i've made a point of ignoring it lately and just leaving myself open to the strange throes of exploration. how else will i know what i'm made of? how else will i know anything? how else will make art? risk, as such, is a definite necessity. i've felt so scared of so much for so long. i've felt afraid of being myself. but i'm at the point now where feeling afraid of something actually becomes the reason to explore that particular something or do that particular something or cultivate an environment where i have to somehow explore the fear. fear becomes the reason for a lot of things these days but never not to do something.
funny enough, the result is that one begins to be afraid of very little. maybe i am devoted to the questions? maybe i am devoted to the attempt? to understand anything. to understand one's self.
am i getting too philosophic? is it too late for that? wait, it's friday night/saturday morning. it's not too late for anything! and aside from that, it's never too late for philosophy! philosophy is a necessity. it's right up there with food and air. so let's get philosophic. tell me your secrets and what the fuck you expect out of this life. the clock is ticking, friend. get on it. fear is a reason to DO IT. i look at this body of mine and i watch it dying. people think i'm so much younger than i am. in some ways, they're right. in some ways i am much younger than i actually am. but i am watching this body age, for however imperceptible that may be to others, and it is a huge motivating force in my life. i look at myself and i see my mama somewhere under this skin. her genetics, her softness, her absolute kindness...
fuck.
talking about her makes me want to cry and marry the first person who will ask me. our fairy tales are hard at work in me too, i promise, i've just decided to ignore that shit and hold out for the best. or atleast the most honest expression of self i can manage.
but my mother... she's dead. and i feel her beauty everyday. it is such a deep pain. i try to think of my life along the same lines of hers. i ask myself "what if you die at 55, kid?"
and so: i bought a ticket back to new york. 7 weeks to go, friends. 7 weeks. and this time i plan to go all alone. i will walk and walk and walk and see as much art as i can. i will write in the bars and cafes. i'll do things that i am afraid of doing. it matters. i plan to move there in the spring. i have 6 months to save as much money as i can but, regardless, i'm going. even if i end up arriving penniless, i'm going. this next trip back is more about exploring what daily life would be like rather than being on vacation. i re-read my NY diary tonight over sushi at my favorite oaktown sushi bar and recalled how instantly at home i felt in that city. god, it overtook me. i loved it the second i saw it. i loved it the entire time i was there. i was heartbroken at the thought of leaving. my last day in NY was a rough one. i really didn't want to leave. it took all i had not to cancel my flight. it really did. i have to go back and let her have her way with me. i have to follow my own trembling, romantic, boisterous heart. our time is too short.
but let's not get too serious. the brevity of our moment is also a reason to participate in exquisite simplicities and sensual pleasures. i'd like to offer a very loud and public THANK YOU to Lady Gaga for making my life infinitely better by making me smell this fucking fantastic! her perfume is amazing. seriously. i test drove it at Lord & Taylor in manhattan but waited til i got home to buy it. i've already spritzed an inch of the stuff and i've only had it a week. good thing i bought the big bottle.
and speaking of Lady Gaga, there's this really special thing i keep resisting making mention of here: jack halberstam's new book GAGA FEMINISM. oh looky, looky! whose image is that on the cover? awwww shit!!! yep, you guessed it! yours truly! and i am absolutely honored! SO HONORED to have been asked by such a thoughtful and exciting theorist as Jack to use one of my drawings on the cover of this book! and also SO HONORED to participate in the feminist/queer discussions of our age. it's a major feather in my cap that jack liked this drawing. period. and i am absolutely honored to, by proxy, engage with Gaga's discussion of identity. i am a lucky bitch, to say the least.
and if you are at all wavering on whether or not to buy this book, don't! it is spectacularly written! i'm only about half way through and i am IN LOVE! GET IT! GET IT! GET IT!!!!! you definitely won't regret it.
and now back to painting and drinking greyhounds.
all my love,
angela.
.
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 17, 2012
lately, and for the past several years, this has been the reason
i take pictures of myself to see this image with my own two eyes. somewhere inside me lives the notion that seeing is believing and maybe i don't believe any of this is real. everything that has come before now feels like a lie. like sabotage. i was never that girl. i take pictures of myself to catalogue the deep breath in. the held oxygen. to prove to myself that i actually exist.
Jun 30, 2012
Jun 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012
Dec 1, 2011
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