the march goes on

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DEATHMARCH POETRY
oakland, ca
angela simione,  january 2015


this image and this text gains potency in these times of brutality.  the imperative to keep making this work, to keep making these marks, to always have a big black marker at the ready, grows and grows.


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going through photos...

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...i think it's time to make a zine.

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2am

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DEATHMARCH POETRY
58th street, oakland CA
June 23rd, 2014
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under the overpass

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deathmarch poetry
oakland CA
angela simione, 2014

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persistence

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they keep taking it down and i keep putting it back up.

this is the third banner i've installed at this particular location.  if there needs to be a fourth, so be it.  when i was getting ready to stitch this piece in to place today, a woman walked by and thanked me for reinstalling it.  it made me feel good that the community here has noticed the work and saw it as a welcome addition to the neighborhood and was sad to see it go.  it made me even happier to be thanked for putting a new piece up.  pep in my step. :)

THE WAY YOU NEED TO BE LOVED

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1am in oakland, california

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DEATHMARCH POETRY
angela simione
january 26th, 2014

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DEATHMARCH

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never forget your big black marker at home. 

the way you need to be loved

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16th street, san francisco CA

angela simione

severed and encouraged

i don't know what i want to say.  something has shifted in me since going to europe.  i can't describe it.  i was so immediately calm once boarding the plane from london to berlin.  so indefinably calm, at ease in the most remarkable way.  natural.  i was never once afraid.  but now here i am, back in the U.S. and not knowing what exactly to do with myself...

i sign up for french classes and decide i need to know more about cheese and wine.  i'm sitting here with my second bottle of Gewurztraminer and a block of Parmesan Romano.  my roommates are helping.  we all feel spoiled.  we all feel special.  life is good.

but my heart aches.  it pulls toward those old bridges.  my broken german longs for a bit of completion.  that strange sadness finds me every couple days. travel sadness.  the need to be back in germany and walking across the Oberbaum Brucke, the need to race through berlin on the back of a blond's motorcycle, the need to sit quietly at a cafe and sip a latte while i scribble in my diary.  it all sounds so lofty and spoiled to american ears but maybe what i'm talking about is simply Living.  maybe what i'm describing are the simple pleasures that come from trusting a stranger simply because you receive an unnameable buzz while in their presence and decide to follow the white hot line of it.  maybe what i'm describing is the utter joy that floods one's being once deciding that Flatliners was right and today really is a good day to die...  so take a deep breath and embrace what you've got.  i'm trying to tell myself exactly that right now.  i'm attempting to play tourist every day and see california as a foreigner might.  it's a tall order but i'm having a great time trying to satisfy it.  still, loneliness finds me.  i just need to be in the wind.  i'm in that Searching phase of life.  i need no schedule and no expectations, just a map and a hunk of bread stuffed in my backpack.


...


while i was away, from time to time i worried about my yarnbombs. i worried whether they'd been taken down yet, snipped away by passersby who wanted a bay-area souvenir or an angsty teenager who felt akin to the sentiments.  i was relieved and ecstatic to find them all in place upon my return.  each and every banner from Aileen to 59th was still there.  AND!!! it seemed as if someone had even been tending to them- straightening them out as they slid down the stop sign poles and making sure the text was straight and discernible.  a week or so later, i noticed two had disappeared.  then, as i walked to the train station this weekend on my way to work i found two banners sliced off and cast to the ground:

 

the jaggedness of the cuts and the fact that these pieces were then thrown aside let me know that the person who cut them down didn't give a shit about this work and, in fact, was probably pissed off.  this is a wonder to me.  i've never actually ever seen a yarnbomb be so violently removed from public view.  but then again, i've not seen any pieces in the bay area that employ text.  maybe the message angered this person???  maybe they found it annoying and was tired of walking passed it on their way to the train???  whatever the reason, this person was obviously angry as evinced by the fact that not all the banners on telegraph have been cut down, only those on a particular block.  basically, i'm saying they weren't cut down by the authorities.  the authorities would have removed them ALL and wouldn't have cast them into the street.

i'm not at all hurt or offended.  if anything, i'm encouraged.  this type of response lets me know i'm on the right track and that i need to keep going.  i felt a sense of lost whenever a banner would disappear before i went on my trip.  so much so that i replaced the one at 58th and telegraph (whoever you are :)  ).  but something changed in me...  i feel more generous these days, more open to evolution and the pain of transformation.  i feel spurred on by your violence.  your anger gets me hot.  it leads to a deep sense of resolve.  i don't give a fuck.  laugh at me or ignore me.  whatever.  slice my work to pieces, just know i'm sitting at my kitchen table tonight eating Parmesan cheese and drinking a lovely bottle of Gewurztraminer:  my feelings are not hurt.  in fact, i like having these photographs of my fallen banners.  i like having them laying on the corner of my bed.  i plan to frame them.  they have a history now, a story i could never have provided that adds to their beauty and intelligence.  it's beyond description.  

i am thankful for the raggedness that my hands are incapable of dealing.  

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impotent dick

okay, okay...  so i have a bit of a habit.  me and my big black marker possess quite an affinity for abandoned furniture.  i just can't help it.  :)

in honor of David Wojnarowicz
58th Street Oakland, CA
August 15th, 2013


the flash blew out the black lines of the text but whatever.  this isn't an art that cares about being pretty.  in fact, prettiness is the least of its concerns.  the uglier the better, actually.  as human beings, we spend substantially more time discussing, dissecting, analysing, and assessing the "ugly" than we do the "beautiful".  that's an observation i can use as a tool and my aching heart simply won't let me walk passed an opportunity to get a little ink out in the world.

i actually walked passed this loveseat and made it all the way to the next block before the hook got in, whipped me around, and lured me back.  it's impossible to resist such a big, open canvas when i've got my Sharpie Magnum in my bag.  :)  especially after having sucked down a Corona after work and walked a mile from the train after waiting tables for 6 hours and all i can think of are the hands that aren't on my tits and the tongue that isn't in my mouth, my empty bed and my dead mother and how totally fucking angry me and my siblings are, how totally angry me and everyone else is. at least half the time.  because at least half the time we all feel like we're caught in some sorta crazy shit that is spinning well beyond our control and IF we're not allowed to have control then let's get a little out of fucking control. why not?  just once.  just for a minute.  let's see what it's like.  let's see if it feels good.  let's see if the house really burns down.  let's call bullshit on the threats.  let's see if the rules really exist or if its just impotent dick.  because i learned the hard way what being "good"  gets me.  scraps just like any other begging dog and no closer to claiming a seat in any supposed heaven.


it isn't bitterness.


and so i sat down on the edge of this loveseat abandoned on the street and i searched and searched and searched for my big black marker in the crazy abyss of my big black bag.  it took a while to root it out but i wasn't in a hurry.  one of my favorite things about being a Grown Up is the fact that i'm allowed to be out at night.  i love walking around my beloved oakland after midnight when everything is slow and dark and romantic.  i love the way streetlamps make everything beautiful; lonely in that way that makes the tears sting...  that unnamable heartache that lives within us all...


it isn't bitterness, it's heartache.


i take out my marker and i think of my mother.  i think of all the things she wanted to do.  i remember David Wojnarowicz and how adamant he was, how dedicated and in love with Art, how totally convinced he was that humanity matters and that we all have a right to live, not just march toward our End.  i think of what a minimal effort it takes to simply REACH IN YOUR BAG AND GET YOUR PEN, GIRL and i write the words.

i write the words because words make the world.  and i want to be in control of the world that i'm making for myself.  i want to see myself sitting securely below the lamplight on a dark street after midnight writing the mantra of a dead artist on a dead loveseat.  i want to see myself alive and moving, passionate and reaching toward the world.  fuck it if i make a mistake.  fuck it if the rules are real after all.  i can't stand the thought of dying before i've actually managed to say something.



it isn't bitterness, it's heartache.  it's the heartache born of realizing our time is too short and a day will never be longer than it is and later this week the loveseat will be hauled away to the dump where it will be hacked in to pieces by a man with a big bad axe.  and that's exactly the point.  one day, that's gonna be me too.  and you. 


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THE WAY YOU NEED TO BE LOVED

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Telegraph Ave @ 49th
Oakland, CA



sometimes a poem only needs one line.

everything is new

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20 hours of travel, a delayed flight, a diverted flight, sleeping on the floor of SFO as i waited for the first trains to begin running.  it was a long walk home that morning but i didn't mind.  it was the first time i'd put my earbuds in in a month.  i was the first time music had coursed through me in lock step with my fast-beating heart.  it was the first time in a month that i was able to lock in to myself, only myself, like masterbation, no one else, no distractions, no concerns, no muttering in the distance.  i had been outside myself for an entire month.  i had been in the wind, in the sun, within a language that floored me and made me its' servant.  gladly (gerne). i'd been so outside myself for an entire month that it seemed impossible to find myself walking along familiar roads.  a part of me was still in Berlin, crossing the Oberbaum Brucke, not crossing Shattuck Ave in Oakland, California.

as i came closer to my house, a dirty, discarded chair came in to view.  no cushions, abandonned on the side of the road.  "ahhh... a canvas..." i thought.  a canvas.  i didn't know how badly i needed one until i saw one.  i went inside and grabbed my big, black marker.  "yes.  perfection.  the first thing i will do upon arriving in oakland is write on the street", i told myself, "this is the only real beauty.  this is the only gesture i have."  i thought of my beloved bridge in Kreuzbeg and my heart ached something awful.  where had my endless waters gone?  i thought of David Wojnarowicz and his plea that we live life like it actually fucking matters.   i thought of his refrain.  i scrawled it quick in fat print:

yes i will.  i fucking promise.


it's so hard to believe a week has already gone by since i've been home.  there is so much to say...  it will come as it is able.

yesterday evening, i stood in my dark kitchen and watched a man cross the street to take a picture of the abandoned chair.  the sun obscured the image and he kicked the chair in a half circle there on the corner to get it out of the glare.   i watched him the entire time.  it was a moment of quiet happiness.  it was a moment of connection to another human being.  i have no idea what to label the work i do that happens in the street.  i very rarely think of it as ART.  or rather, ART isn't even the consideration.  i think of these things as Signs.  as a Cry.  it was wonderful to be able to witness my cry being heard.  not only heard, but echoed in the heart of another.  i felt unbelievably lucky.

i am happy to stretch out in my white room and see the reflection of my body flash in the armoir mirror.  i am happy to make coffee in my kitchen and spend the first 2 hours of the day scribbling in my diary.  i am happy to have a washer and drier at my disposal.  but i assure you, 3 weeks overseas was definitely not enough.  all my plans have changed. my ideas are totally shattered.  i have no answers and all of my goals have been flung far and wide. 

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happy

went out yarnbombing last night after a beautiful and fun dinner with my beautiful and fun friend Trish.  i love that we got to see each other before i take off on this adventure.  she is one of the most well-traveled, adventurous, insightful, and open people i have ever met.  i feel so blessed every time we hang out because i walk away so much richer with insight and perspective than i was before.  i picked her brain for travel advice and how tipping works in other countries.  i'm so looking forward to the food.  especially in france.  i will definitely eat snails and frog legs.  but more than anything, i'm looking forward to simply being in a foreign land.  simply sitting at a cafe and people-watching will be such a deep pleasure for me and so affective.  Trish said to be safe but not worry too much and just have fun.  i will do my very best to do just that.  she bought me two greyhounds at a bar we'd never been to before after dinner and then dropped me off at the corner of Claremont and Telegraph so i could install a few pieces on my walk home.  i've been trying to get every parking sign on the even numbered side of the street from the traffic light at Aileen to the light at 59th.  last night i reached my goal.  :)  it was important to me to get it done before leaving.  i walked slowly down Telegraph Ave and straightened the other bombs and even replaced the one someone snipped down as a souvenir.   i was sad to see one go missing but also complimented that someone out there likes the work so much they couldn't resist taking it.

 

this afternoon, i walked back to take photos of the work.  i decided to put on my travel bag, fully loaded, and see how heavy the thing really is.  after about a half hour, it felt pretty heavy.  Becca and i are going to get fucking buff, is what.  ha!  but it was such a privately romantic moment...  just walking down my city's streets with my bag on my back, dreaming of new york and paris, and berlin, and  photographing my work up in midst of all this oakland buzz and hustle.   it was a beautiful way to spend the afternoon.

the last few days have been exceptionally beautiful, actually.  i had dinner with Becca's mom the evening before and being around her is so emotionally and spiritually nourishing.  i think of her as Spiritual Food.  i truly do.  i leave feeling replenished and excited and driven to "be MORE myself" (always hearing your voice in my head these days, suzanne, encouraging me along).  we had goat cheese stuffed dates that were wrapped in bacon and they were unbelievable.  i can't even describe how delicious they were.  over dinner we talked and talked and talked about europe and how special it is that Becca and i are undertaking this together.  "i met your daughter almost 8 years ago in a color theory class and look at all the beautiful colors we've managed to bring to each other ever since." i said.  sentimental as fuck, yes!  but sentimentality has its place too and i'll never feel embarrassed of appreciating and loving another person.  not ever.  i am honored to have the opportunity to do so and to feel this way.  i'm lucky to have such amazing women in my life and i adore them something fierce.

and then last night after i got home from dropping all my bombs (6 in total last night), seth and i stayed up drinking (well, i drank anyway) and watching the final dance scene in Dirty Dancing over and over again.  i tried to learn the steps in the kitchen and quickly realized i need to hunt down a tutorial.   :)

watch this and try not to smile.  it's a piece of my childhood and makes me laugh joyfully like a child everytime i see this!

 

 :D

a run of beautiful days leading up to my departure.  i am so thankful for the beauty that swirls around and through my life.  hard to imagine how desperate and sad i once felt.  hard to believe that i was once convinced i was not capable of living this way.  i am astounded and endlessly grateful for the freedom i now enjoy.  endlessly endlessly endlessly.

then suddenly, a moment. then suddenly, a means.

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Because it's Oakland and because I'm feeling a bit poetic and because I just so happened to stumble across an abandoned mattress when I just so happened to have a magnum Sharpie in my bag. Because the world needs more words. Because the world needs more poetry. Because the world needs bravery. Because the world could benefit from the influence of a few more brave, poetic girls. Anddddd because I've been drinking tequila. ;)

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beautiful evening

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sometimes a girl just doesn't feel like herself until she gets some art out in the streets.  :)

CRY HARDER

yarnbomb 

corner of Claremont and Forest in Oakland CA

angela simione, 2013

back in action!

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fuck sensible shoes!  i've been bound to my bed far too long and in WAY too much pain to give a shit about that kind of tripe.  i stomped around oakland in these beauts for a cool 2 hours today.  dropped a new yarn bomb and mended another.  the passed few days have been absolutely fantastic.  each day will get better and better from here on out.

i can't tell you how good it feels to move again.  it'll be some weeks still before i can get back to running but my mood is skyrocketing regardless.  i am anxious to get back to work, back into the swing of things, back in to life.  today marks 3 weeks since this injury stalled my life.  all i want to do is be outside and be around people.  i've missed the buzz of life.  i've missed my long hustle to the train station.  i've missed taking pictures of the sky and being able to stand at my huge drawing pinned to my bedroom wall and just work.  i've missed the company of others and the jokes that get told in bars.  i miss all the late night alcohol-fueled confessions.  i've missed my life.

these first few ginger steps back in to the world had to be stylish, had to be brash and bit cavalier.  getting a few of the yarn bombs i made up in the city has felt so amazing.   doing it in leopard print booties makes it feel even better.  exhilarating, actually.  :) 

there is such a freedom in working on the street like this, in spending hours on a single piece and then giving it to the city itself... giving it away.  the photograph becomes an important thing.  the document of an act, an artwork, and a sentiment.  there's no way to determine how long these pieces will stay in place.  my hope, of course, is that they stay stitched tightly around the poles of street signs for years.  this is why i maintain them.  if they begin to sag after being rained on a few times, i stitch them tighter and straighten them out so they look crisp and clean again.  i want the messages of these texts to be as clear as possible.  legibility is a factor, as is style.  i will not allow the work to fall in to disrepair for as long as i live in this city.  i want these bits of poetry to have the best chance of survival possible.  i want the impetus to CRY HARDER to reach those who need the encouragement the most. 

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DEATHMARCH (write your heart out)