in bed with kate and all my memories of When...

.

 

recovering today with kate.  my back hurts.  i am spending the day in bed.

it's good to finally be reading this book.  i've been a bad friend in that regard...  we artists are supposed to stick together.  but i've been a bad artist lately too.  i bounce in and out of enthusiasm, in and out of my once-unshakable integrity and devotion.  maybe i've just needed a bit of a break?  maybe i am, once more, in the wool-gathering time...

today, i return to a previous self.  maybe the pain is good for me.  as a result, i am caged (beautifully so) in my new grey sheets, in my new bed, in my new room at the front of the house.  last week, i upgraded.  i jumped from renting the smallest room in the house to the largest.  private bathroom and all.  this aspect alone makes it feel as if i suddenly live by myself save for the occasions when i hear a roommate drop a dish in the sink.  it is beyond nice. i can stretch out again.  i am no longer cramped.  my books no longer crowd me, dominate the room.  i enjoy the light that spills in to my room each morning from the window above my bed.  i wake up feeling free.  i wake up feeling grateful.

even today.  despite this pain.  a day in bed should rectify this ache.  tomorrow will be better.  tomorrow i should be back on my feet.  but until then, let me languish in this strange variety of luxury.  though i am in pain, it is fantastic to be able to spend the day in bed with a book.  especially Kate's book.  i think back to that weird, wonderful era when we communicated across the electric blue line of the internet in the comment boxes of each others' blogs.  so many of us, us girls and women trying to say something about our lives and find a site of understanding...  having to fashion our own nests out of words and sadness and the light of a computer screen...  i lived for my blog in those days, and i lived for hers, and i lived for rebecca's.  i was obsessed.  pleasantly obsessed.  i was so miserable in my daily physical reality, then: trapped in the deadening silence of little Calistoga, in the deadening silence of a dead relationship.

it's hard to even talk about it.  not because it hurts but because it seems (and feels) like such an impossibility; a falsehood.  it feels like it never happened.  that wasn't me.  i was never that girl...  but i was.  i lived it.  and it feels just as much a lie now as it did then.  jose reminds me: "but you made so much good art there".  he's right.  i did.  but i have a hard time calling that a fair trade.  i have a hard time looking at my work and saying, "yeah...  that's a good consolation for what i went through".

i used to write everyday in this space.  

i wrote everyday in this space because i wanted desperately to have someone to talk to.  it is horrible to me that that was the impetus and i was in a relationship at the time.  

on page 24: "I am realizing you become a wife, despite the mutual attempt at an egalitarian partnership, once you agree to move for him."  

perhaps, i became a wife when i agreed to follow a man out to the California countryside, a place i had no desire to be, in order to feel some sense of safety...  for so many reasons.  so many hard, horrible reasons.  the collapse of my biological family being central to that decision.  and we were never officially married but everyone saw as as married anyway.  toward the end, i resented that.  as if my decision to remain unmarried didn't matter.  there were good reasons for remaining unmarried and it upset me that they weren't acknowledged...  and this Upset led me to look at myself and what i'd chosen to be a part of...  i helped keep those good reasons a secret: the lies we tell ourselves and the lies we tell each other and the lies we build together.  it's easy to allow oneself to become lost in the haze of desire.  especially the desire to be Right...  the desire to avoid the shame of being Wrong.  

perhaps i became a wife when i chose Silence.

perhaps i became a wife when i chose to endure Silence.

it horrified me when i'd hear women far older than i complaining about how their husbands never talked with them and how deeply i related to that deep pain.  the ignored wife.

years later, i lay in my own bed reading about the silencing of wives...  the necessity of a wife's silence.  i recall the years i offered up my own Silence as a benefit to the lives of the men around me.  my lover and my father and my step father... all the things i never spoke of because, in telling on them, i told on myself (or so i believed).  in telling the truth about my own circumstances, i somehow became a Judas.  i somehow betrayed my mother.  i somehow betrayed everyone by simply telling the truth about my own life and self.  the knots of silence that keep a girl in place.  the knots of shame that keep her poised and pretty and appreciated by everyone around her.  the prize of her silence.  the reward she receives is simply the absence of Shame. 

perhaps that's why i put so many words out in to the street now.

perhaps it's why i am so slow to trust men and so slow to trust the idea of family.  i need a new definition for these things...  a new understanding of what relationships can be and what they are for.  i am most comfortable and happiest in my independence.  and so i paint my nails lavender and turn the pages of a book.  i lay in bed, shopping on the internet, and choose to not feel guilty about any of it.  if i am silly, let me be silly. let me be what i actually am: a non-wife and a non-daughter.  i went down the other roads and it nearly destroyed me.  i am making my way out of silence. 

.

hello again

i've been so busy since the new semester started a few weeks ago.  unbelievably busy.  it seems that suddenly my life has come full circle and i spend the vast majority of my time working and studying, waiting for a free moment that i can give to art-making.  i reel in my desire to stay out late drinking in bars and embrace my time-honored affection for long nights of reading and drawing at home alone on my bedroom floor.  my old, gentle habits return.  my quiet self, my thoughtful self emerges.  it's the right time of year for such a return. 

a few days ago i celebrated my first anniversary of being single.  an entire year has elapsed.  12 solid months. it's so strange;  it seems like it's been so much longer than that.  i've done so much living since the day i walked out the door, taking only my white leather jacket and book bag with me last february.  that moment seems like a dream.  the life that followed on its heels feels real. 

i've been reading back through last year's diary.  it is a surreal experience.  i look at my own handwriting and am boggled by the words on the page.  i stare at the sentences, at the expression of such degraded loneliness and my small squeaks of hope, and wonder how it was ever possible that that life was really mine.  we humans often find ourselves in situations we didn't intend.  the years get away from us so quickly.  our naivety blinds us.  our fear of pain delays decision after decision.  we ache for something better than what we have but we feel guilty for wanting it.  we assume that wanting something other than what we've got means we're bad, wrong, or selfish.  i wasn't leading a bad life, i was simply stuck in a life that wasn't right for me.  i'm thankful to have this level of understanding at my disposal.  it feels good to be able to understand the lives and motivations of others as a result of having had such an experience.  i am more compassionate today that i was a year ago.  i am stronger and more able to give respect, tolerance, and understanding to other people.  i have a greater capacity for love than i have ever had before. 

still, i'm in no rush to couple-up.  i was in a relationship for 7 years.  i'm enjoying all this ME TIME.  it's nice to be able to plan trips and not have to worry if another person approves or not.  it's nice to be able to spend money on whatever the fuck i feel like spending money on without having to worry about what judgement may befall me as a result.  it's nice not to have to cook dinner every night.  it's nice to cook whatever i want for dinner and not have any discussion about it whatsoever.  it's nice to simply be myself.  it really is.  i like who i am.  i like not having to amend my self or argue for my own interests and desires.  i like not being confronted with the "necessity" of concession and compromise.  and i'm hopeful that there are other types of relationships possible in this life aside from what i just described.  i'm hopeful that in the future i'll stumble in to a situation that feels good, feels respectful of who i truly am, and encourages me to be my best. in the meantime, i'm doing a pretty good job of encouraging myself. 

it feels great to return to a deep degree of dedication when it comes to language acquisition and study.  i have two german classes this semester and am currently saving money for a trip to germany in summer.  i come home to my books and my art after work rather than heading off to a bar.  don't get me wrong, i love bars, it's just time to be a bit more measured when it comes to how much time (and money) i spend in them.  i've got dreams to chase and tons of lessons to learn.  this little waiter needs a clear head, an open heart, and money for plane tickets.  and it's amazing to see myself come back around to ideas and interests i had this time last year but that i necessarily had to put on hold while i tended to the very real concern of my own survival and building a life for myself.  it's fantastic to read how excited i was to attend the Francesca Woodman retrospective at SFMOMA last year and relive the profound affinity i felt toward her work.  it's wonderful to read about my budding enthusiasm for photography and streetart and then to realize that now, a year later, i'm participating in both art-forms in a serious manner.  so many things seem to be coming back around to degree zero and i feel refreshed and recharged by that lucky occurrence. 

all this to say, it's nice to be back.  life sure gets good every now and then and there's a hell of a lot to look forward to. 

;)

exposure

i spent this grey day at home in my pajamas studying german vocabulary and listening to german music.  i am a bit under the weather today.  my throat is sore and so are my eyes.  the perils of airline travel.  trapped in that recirculated air for 6 hours isn't exactly the best shit to breath.  but it's worth it to have seen the atlantic again.  it's worth it to have seen that distant sky.  my flight in was diverted to Buffalo due to dense fog at JFK.  a gorgeous sunrise met us there.  me and so many strangers walked to the large window with our cups of airport coffee and stood there gazing together at that luscious, unexpected orange. 

and then to come home to 70 degree weather and bright skies.
and then to come home to such ease and warmth.
and then to come home.
in spite of this little chest cold, i feel lucky and light.  i've been to New York twice in 2 1/2 months.

i spent the first 2 hours of my day scribbling leisurely in my notebook, recounting kisses and attempting to identify my newest desires and latest dreams.  life has changed so much this year.  life has changed so much in the last 2 months.  and something has clicked in to place as a result of returning to the scene of certain crimes.  something has healed.  i no longer feel quite so dire as i did before.  i no longer feel like time is quickly running out.  i no longer feel that i need to be wild in order to feel that i have lived.  i enjoy wildness, it's true, but the past few days i've enjoyed a deep, warm sense of calm.  a stillness.  a readiness for something a bit more serious.

after ending a long term relationship at the beginning of this year, i think i needed to take advantage of a very high level of freedom.  i needed to stay out late and dance and drink and have fun.  i needed to be stupid and i needed to be dangerous.  i needed to stop caring about the clock for awhile; expectations and responsibilities and all the things i had allowed to take root in me that choked my ability to blossom and change.  i needed to cut away so many things.  i needed to turn my back on so many things i was taught.  those horrible falsities and all the beautiful lies we are sometimes so eager to believe.  for years i listened to my instincts screaming at me to leave but i was just so fucking afraid of so many things to know how to do it.  i had come to believe that being myself was a selfish thing.  i had been made to believe that every desire of mine was self-serving and, therefore, shameful.  i am finally taking a clean, deep breath.  all these months and years later am i finally able to look at what i tolerated and ask myself why?

when you've been taught from childhood to believe that everything you are is bad and wrong, you become unable to trust your own instincts.  you become unable to act in your own best interest.  you put other people's happiness well before your own because "that's what a good person does".  you tuck your tail and you smile.  you save your tears for the shower.  you become a master of silent crying.  you become a master of self-denial and self-deception.  you stay put because you've been taught so thoroughly to believe that you are somehow deficient.

deficient.
inadequate.
silly.
dirty.
dumb.
ridiculous.
selfish.
childish.
ugly.

and it is only when you are doing what you're told that maybe a bit of affection is thrown your way.  a crumb.  a scrap.  a pat on the head.

as my mother crept ever closer to her death, i began to see so glaringly that i had been chasing scraps of approval my entire life.  so had she.  she was strong in so many beautiful ways but also suffered from such tremendous guilt.  she too believed that everything about her was bad and wrong:  the legacy that is handed down.

shortly after she died i was able to say fuck it.  if i'm bad, i'm bad. so be it.  if i'm selfish, so be it.  shit can't get any goddamn worse.  i feel like dying too.  if this is what being Good gets me, let me test drive Bad.  my life depends on it.

i used to cry almost every day.  in the last 9 months maybe i've cried 9 times.  and i'm being generous in my estimate.  deciding to stop caring about whether or not other people will label me as selfish is the best decision i could have ever made.  my worst fear is hurting other people and that has led quickly to my own undoing, my own site of deep, atrocious pain.  i am so afraid of being a disappointment that i silence myself, i tie myself in knots, i wake up in a panic in the middle of the night afraid that i am the worst person alive and wondering how i can gain forgiveness for the fact of my horrible birth.  i have let other people do horrible things to me.  friends, family members, lovers.  i have tolerated extreme neglect.  i have tolerated viciousness and cruelty.  i have allowed myself to be convinced that i deserved these things.  this is the self-hatred that was instilled in me at the very beginning of my life.

a friend of mine recently passed on a saying to me: we recieve the love we think we deserve.

i've been turning it over and over inside my head.  i've aimed it right at my heart like a gun and i've rolled around in it like a child in tall grass.   i obviously thought i deserved very little;  that love was something i could only aspire to give but not necessarily receive.  during the last few months of my life, i've loved myself in a way i lacked for a very long time.  i decided to attend to my own needs and not leave it up to chance or benevolence.  i've had more fun that i can describe and i've written some of the best prose of my life as a result.  i've met so many interesting people and have had my faith in humanity restored by such seemingly simple things as dancing with strangers in dark clubs and watching the sunrise in a different time-zone.

i walked down market street in san francisco last night to meet a friend for drinks and as i crossed the street, i thought i stand entirely on my own...  god, this feels fantastic. 

The Runaway Game:

I would go around and around my little bedroom that I shared with my sister and I would pick out the things that could not be left behind. I had a cardboard suitcase with tiny flowers printed all over it. I would open it up in the middle of the room and fold my underwear and socks in to it. My Bible for Children lay beneath the small, white garments. I packed my favorite stuffed animal and a coloring book and a box of used up crayons. Back and forth, back and forth, picking up every item in my little room, weighing the consequences of leaving each thing behind: Would this doll’s feelings be hurt? Would this teddy bear survive without me? Who would love them for me when I was gone?

Sorrowful. Round and round. Each horrible choice. But the suitcase needed to be ready. This game could go on for hours.

here we go!

September! eeeeeeek! the big 3.0. is right around the corner! 2 days away and i am totally looking forward to collecting it.

i am (weirdly?) one of those people who hate their own birthday. i didn't think i was in that crowd but, about 5 years or so ago, i noticed the pattern of letting the day roll by without any sort of real celebration or acknowledgement. it was more than enough to get the obligatory 'happy birthday' phone call from friends and family. i'd take the day off from work (i am a firm believer that no one should work on their birthday unless you've got a jobby-job you absolutely adore) and usually stay home and paint or write. and get sad. it is the horrible cycle of The People-Pleaser to feel like you haven't "accomplished enough" in your life... especially on traditional markers of time like birthdays, anniversaries, and New Years. this is a habit that needs breaking. because, to put it plainly, it sucks. ha!

and last year on my birthday, the stars aligned in such a way as to show me that there were some pretty deep changes i needed to make in my life... that for all the wishing and crying i'd done, the only way to move forward was to go inside, clear the bullshit out of the way so i could actually see the path i was standing on. and i had to be able to see it in order to know which direction to head in. i made the decision on my 29th birthday to get re-acquainted with myself and to stop worrying about Time so much. not an easy thing. and i realized that my path is specific to me and that i make a mistake when i compare my life to other people's. i decided to do the clean up that was so clearly necessary.

the first thing to go was drinking. i had a glass of champagne last year on the night of my birthday. i was at an art reception for a show i had some work in. and i haven't had any alcohol since. it isn't that i thought i had a drinking problem, i though i had a thinking problem and i've wrestled my entire life with Sadness. for me, drinking compounded those issues in a way that was pretty much dangerous. and insofar as my practice was concerned, it stalled me in my tracks. and that made the level of depression i was living under all the more heavy. a depression i had been living under for 2 years straight and was only getting worse by the day. in fact, September 2nd (tomorrow) is the anniversary of a total Collapse.

my birthday seemed like a pretty opportune moment to start digging myself back out of that pit and that's exactly what the last year of my life has been all about.

The Almighty Jog, re-learning how to trust my instincts again, trust my own internal rhythms, focus on my own loves, my own values, my own beliefs. and to let my wrestling take place there. and i found a ton of out-dated maps and notions and ideas that i desperately needed to abandon.

i made the decision to approach my practice with love and gratitude, to take it day by day, and to locate images and words and the work of other artists and writers that resonated with me and what my life had been. i began to see what my true values were and how long i had been shelving them in order to "help" other people. i had had it drummed in to me that that's what you do when you really love someone. after making the decision to confront myself, i saw what a load of horseshit that actually is. and i spent a long time feeling alternately mad and sad about having been taught such an extremely damaging lesson. very mad. very sad. and rather than hide my sadness (which is what i typically did) and put on a Happy Face, i allowed my sadness to sit on the surface of my being. you can see it even here on this blog. i'm not ashamed of that. i don't think struggle is something a person should ever be made to feel ashamed of. ever. and so i don't allow myself to be ashamed or be shamed by others anymore. and that's probably the biggest step i've taken this year. shame had become quite a nasty habit. the only thing i've found that conquers Shame is Honesty. hard Honesty. Honesty about myself.

the passed year has gone by so unbelievably quickly. and here i am- a runner, an artist, a writer, a lover. from the outside, my life probably doesn't look very different today than it did a year ago, but it is. it is deeply different. i still get sad a lot... but life, at the moment, within my family, is pretty effing sad. and so it's normal. and i won't say i've figured everything out or that i have all the answers. i don't. what i do have is the knowledge that no one has all the answers and that that's actually a really great thing. i was thinking about that when i woke up today- answers and questions. and that maybe that's what art is? a practice of nailing down our questions rather than answers. and i like that. i like that a lot. :)

i'm excited to see where the next year goes. the only plan i have is to keep doing what i've been doing. keep running, keep writing, keep drawing, painting, making, exploring, excavating. keep trying. truly trying. and to not measure myself against other people's rulers. to live by my own standards and to practice a very brave, compassionate Honesty. i am removing the gag that i've lived with for soooo long. and though it is a very scary thing, i choose to be myself and to not writhe in silence anymore. i choose to be an artist and to let the expressions of my humanity be complete. i choose bravery.

anyway... GOOD MORNING! and HAPPY SEPTEMBER!!!!!! <3

true story.

make it beautiful. make it romantic.

covering it in oil makes it easier to swallow.



private romance (Angela, age 19)
42" x 35"
oil on canvas
angela simione, 2010

and so it goes...

by late afternoon yesterday, i found myself in a fragile mood. a fragile place. and i grabbed the keys to go lose myself in the throng for a little while. i lost myself looking at clothes at macy's for awhile (didn't buy any but tried a whole bunch of stuff on) and then went and looked at curtains and bedroom stuff at Target. Target traps me and i ended up staying there almost until closing time. i left with a curtain rod and 2 pairs of funky socks. funky socks have always made me happy. especially striped ones. and always knee highs. but on the drive home, i found myself getting tearful and feeling like a scared child. these things creep up unexpectedly sometimes... but they are inevitable. for all of us.

it's just the weight of the past, i suppose.

the weight of the past.

there will always be the big WHY. always the mourning for things that never were or things that left too soon or things that should have never been.

the death of an ideal.

the death of an ideal is a grievous thing. the grief is massive and can span years.

but we (i) can create new dreams to take their places. better dreams, better hopes. most of the time, i think i have an idea of how to set about accomplishing that. some days... not so much. yesterday ended up being that kind of day. but this morning i woke feeling so much better. not scared, not so unsure, not so tangled. i am drinking good coffee and i put up the new curtain rod and curtains. a deep plum. maybe eggplant. a deep, dark, dusty color that is warm and gorgeous.

it's nice to know that things can be deep and dark and be warm and gorgeous as well.

ghosts.

there was a strange hollow in me yesterday. all day. persistent. hard. dark. but i painted and ran and took care of all the little things of a day and now, after a long, deep sleep, i am all the better for it.

there are memories that creep up unexpectedly sometimes. all the sharp things a little girl learns not to touch. but i'm not a little girl anymore and i can make my own rules. not all ghosts are bad... even if they are all scary. some ghosts have love in them or are born of love and come creeping slowly, come as a breath to hug you and sigh in your ear. some ghosts are necessary. some of them want to help.

pink...

i spent all day digging and pulling and looking, rooting through my heavy portfolios, making piles and systems and rituals. my back hurts. damn iffy disk. but progress has been made, even if just a little. and it was sort of romantic... sitting outside in the cool sun with all my portfolios laying open. i remember the day each drawing was made. every single one. they all, no matter how sloppy or misguided, made me smile. wide and warm and full of thanks... like when you watch children playing.

just a small collection of work found in the depths of the art pile...








all works-
angela simione, 2007

good morning, sunshine!

i am back to my early morning schedule, back on that good, grey horse and OH how i have missed it! i had slipped back in to an old routine the past few weeks and i knew at the time that it was no good. no good at all. i saw how, even here on the blog, i suffered. my lethargy dictating when i wrote and how i wrote. it was glaring and it made me feel bad. but i suppose i needed a little reminder of how good the early morning schedule is for me in spite of being a night person by nature. i've always loved staying up late but i've realized that it's mainly due to the conversations that have taken place in the wee hours- for some odd reason our words seem more romantic, more poignant, more whatever in the witching hour. i've decided that that's sorta teenage (in a bad way) and that i need to out-grow that... at least in terms of day to day living. besides, i know exactly who i picked that habit up from and it's time to set that down. the cleaning spree i'm on is really about me more than the house. much more. and in a lot of strange, hard to explain ways, it is a very deep, very private form of painting, of poetry.

the arts are often used as therapy. here, i am reversing that equation. therapy becomes art. it exceeds and excels its station, its title, its function. i am reaching back in to the corners and getting out all the dust, getting the hair up from the carpet, no inch escaping my notice or hand. everything is touched, considered, fixed, cleaned, put in its right place or shoved out the door. i am trying to get back to that place of newness where all my possessions could fit in two suitcases. this is a romantic fascination that will never happen- my books alone could fill ten easily. but its the desire that is the point. its the work that is the point. a very private practice that will only bring good. there are things that i am finally strong enough to let go of. there are things that i am finally strong enough to live without. there are things that i no longer have any interest in using as a way to define myself.

i cleaned all day yesterday. all day. and i finished one of the potholders. ha! i can't tell you how damn proud i am of that thing! i noticed that i don't use my skills to benefit my own home. all the stuff i make gets sent out in to the world- which is wonderful! that's where art works its magic. but i decided i needed a bit of magic for myself as well... and more art on my walls than just my own. yesterday i framed other people's art and today i'll try to rearrange the walls and get them up. today, i will continue the magic that swirled through my home yesterday. today will be exactly the same. i can't tell you how happy and excited i am to finally be doing this. it has taken a long, pained year to get to this point where i am finally able to unload all of this. i am finally returning to my strong self and i am smiling and hopeful and back on the good, grey horse.

cleaning...

i finally opened the box i didn't want to open- the one that houses my dairies. there's stuff in there dating back to when i was 14 years old, hopelessly romantic, and full of adolescent sorrow and anger.

i did the hard deed and threw the majority of them in the recycle bin. i didn't even ruffle through them the way i have in the past, looking for the little golden bits of writing that bounce out from the blue lines. i only checked the dates. i know what was going on in my life by just checking that and whether or not the "good" writing had started yet. i saved a stack of them and scrapped the rest. i don't need the document. i have the memory. and words follow a person around whether or not they are ever even read.

there are things, i suppose, we all hold on to, are afraid to let go of... or maybe just afraid to name the current situation: that person isn't me anymore. it feels horribly false to pretend otherwise. and in the spirit of clearing out relics from the past and making room for new memories and hopes and even hurts, the diaries had to go. that girl isn't here anymore. the hand writing looks the same but the words aren't. the dreams aren't. and i'm done with that old sorrow. some stuff is better off abandoned, forgotten, forgiven if possible.

all this sorting and weeding through has brought around uncomfortable and weird dreams. some of the dreams are memories. some are fears. precious few are welcome. when i'm done with this, they will go away and my normal good dreams will return. it is merely process. a 'working through' of long put off brain shit and heart shit. nevertheless, it is good work. it makes me good.

deciphering...

woke up with that odd feeling on my shoulders again... only this time it was heavier. so heavy in fact that it took some doing and a whole bunch of time to talk myself in to getting out of bed today. but i finally placed where this odd mood is coming from-

for the past 4 1/2 years, i have moved, consistent as clockwork, every year and a half. that mark is upon me- the time when the upheaval starts. my bones must remember it and are reminding me to prepare myself. only this time there is no upheaval on the horizon, no tragedy to wrestle with, no massive problem that needs to be managed. it's just my training kicking in, telling me to brace myself against the storm. but it's all clear and bright and easy here. there's no dangerous weather, at least none that i can see or smell or sense. there is no great turmoil brewing. now that i've placed it, i feel a bit better. it's just my strange, internal, deceptive clock ticking away in my ear as i sleep and i wake up with its dread in my hair and disillusionment crushed across my eyes and all the bad, bad, bad of the world sinking in to my pores. it's not a fun way to begin the day... especially for a person like me who always (almost always) wakes up happy and talkative and ready to explore and play and laugh. yes, i am one of those types who is happy to open their eyes and see sunshine. i am part of that happy tribe that most of the world's population seems to be horribly annoyed by. i've always been this way, even as a child. especially as a child. i've always believed that, in spite of its many horrors, the world is good and open and here to be enjoyed and marvelled at- its grasses are to be danced in and turn cartwheels on and to watch children play and chase insects. i've always noticed how it never rains on sunday... it might be dreary and it might rain at night, but for the life of me i can't ever remember it raining on a sunday... maybe that's just a california thing.