.
you fall asleep with your glasses on.
i turn off the movie you suggested.
i make a little film of myself dancing in the mirror:
black dress, swaying hips.
i send the film to jose because it's not out of the ordinary for him to be awake this late.
he sends me a film in return:
girls dancing in short skirts and my art on his walls.
i should send him more. what do i need all this art for?
sometimes i wonder about who i am
vs. what i was taught...
i think about that a lot lately.
maybe it has something to do with the time of year? the slant of the sun?` the yellow cast catches my eye- the way it drips from the leaves, the way it oozes through the blinds. i think of home... days when i'd come home from school to find my mother standing in the kitchen, days when i'd drag my body home so begrudgingly... always feeling at odds, always feeling the pull toward something else, always unable to just get along...
i look at myself in the mirror and i can see that i'm older but i don't feel as old as i am. really, i feel like i've just begun. maybe i'm just a late bloomer? i was simply getting ready all this time. i was simply gathering wool. i was only learning the vocabulary i'd need.
.
i walked down shattuck ave in the late afternoon and it felt so much like the late afternoons i spent in my hometown. i'll never hate oakland the way i hated redlands. i could never hate oakland at all, it's just that i've been here too long. i lust too hard after other sunrises. i lust too hard after other winds echoing across other avenues. i've drempt too hard for too long of far off places. the residency sealed it. i belong elsewhere. i've known it for quite some time. it feels good to have finally made the decision to click the BUY NOW button on a plane ticket and choose a new adventure. i need to walk down streets i'm inspired by again. i need to welcome the next phase.
i tried to throw away old art supplies today and couldn't do it.
there's so much to get rid of.
i cleaned the toilet instead.
i want to give myself the gift of a fresh start but it is horrendously painful to part with certain things. i'm leaving the contents of my bookcase until last. it'll break my heart to have to part with certain books. today, i looked at my copy of the collected novels of Jean Rhys and thought of Kate- those old days of writing back and forth to one another through email and the comment boxes of our blogs. i read all of Jean Rhys' novels during the 8 days i had to wait before i could board my plane to tennessee to go watch my mother die. then kate mailed me a copy of Roland Barthes' "Mourning Diary" after i returned home to california after the funeral.
i shouldn't have become so distant after all that (with everybody) but i honestly couldn't help it.
i couldn't help it.
sometimes i still can't
but i'm glad to not need such a deep silence now.
.
brian is curled up under my white quilt.
i love him and i'm glad he is here.
tonight while we walked home from the bar, i looked at him and said, "hey, brian elder, you're my best friend!"
he looked at me and said, "oh yeah? you're my best friend!"
i'm happy as fuck. :)
.
Showing posts with label angel simione. Show all posts
Showing posts with label angel simione. Show all posts
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 16, 2015
upon deciding to move to new york...
.
...and creating a life that feels right for me.
the tickets are bought. New York, here i come. :)
.
...and creating a life that feels right for me.
the tickets are bought. New York, here i come. :)
.
Jan 27, 2015
Apr 30, 2014
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Nov 19, 2013
open-mouth kisses
.
how to speak of desire?
how to speak of fantasy?
how to speak to you
directly
except with an open mouth.
how else to speak to you
except like this. here. in the room where i am king.
,+5+4x6+35mm+photographs,+angela+simione+2013.JPG)
,+35mm+photo+collage,+angela+simione+2013.JPG)
alone in my room at night, i photograph my mouth. monday afternoons, i drop 2 rolls of film off at the one-hour photo lab up the road and wait excitedly to see what magic might occur. half the time, it's all total crap and a sad waste of money... but maybe not. maybe not. even the worst photograph teaches me something, especially a new way to see. and then there are the days like today when i flip through the shiny photos and line up the images and find some sort of nebulous narrative that has the ability to speak to the hardest topics i contain, the themes i shy away from and the names i don't want to give up. but maybe you already know. maybe, if you've stumbled here, you already know your name rests hotly on my tongue.
how to speak of need?
how to speak of ache?
how to speak of dreams that linger long after waking and which make it so hard to get out of bed?
how to speak without crying?
how to cry without embarrassment?
how to quiver and writhe?
how to stop waiting for unneeded permission?
this suite of photographs i'm amassing is loving referred to as the Kisses Collection and i'm liking what i see. i like how it feels.
.
how to speak of desire?
how to speak of fantasy?
how to speak to you
directly
except with an open mouth.
how else to speak to you
except like this. here. in the room where i am king.
,+5+4x6+35mm+photographs,+angela+simione+2013.JPG)
,+35mm+photo+collage,+angela+simione+2013.JPG)
alone in my room at night, i photograph my mouth. monday afternoons, i drop 2 rolls of film off at the one-hour photo lab up the road and wait excitedly to see what magic might occur. half the time, it's all total crap and a sad waste of money... but maybe not. maybe not. even the worst photograph teaches me something, especially a new way to see. and then there are the days like today when i flip through the shiny photos and line up the images and find some sort of nebulous narrative that has the ability to speak to the hardest topics i contain, the themes i shy away from and the names i don't want to give up. but maybe you already know. maybe, if you've stumbled here, you already know your name rests hotly on my tongue.
how to speak of need?
how to speak of ache?
how to speak of dreams that linger long after waking and which make it so hard to get out of bed?
how to speak without crying?
how to cry without embarrassment?
how to quiver and writhe?
how to stop waiting for unneeded permission?
this suite of photographs i'm amassing is loving referred to as the Kisses Collection and i'm liking what i see. i like how it feels.
.
Oct 10, 2013
artist statement
.
sometimes...
sometimes sometimes sometimes...
(manchmal...
quelquefois... )
sometimes art is only about your own ridiculousness...
sometimes art is only about how lonely you feel, how separate, how insecure. sometimes art is only about the text message that went unanswered. sometimes art is only about the pain that sweeps through you silently and unseen on the train as you careen home, alone, wishing there was someone to hug on the other side of your own front door. sometimes art is sentimental and sticky. sometimes art doesn't give two shits if it's pretty or not or if it's got a red face when it cries. sometimes art is only about the fact that it's fucking 2am and you're drunk and tired of feeling alone and separate and insecure and that's exactly why you're drunk in the first fucking place. sometimes art isn't about any of the fucking theories. sometimes it's about your dead mother and sometimes it's about your absent father and sometimes it's about how estranged you've become in this wide world of christian morals and families holding hands on sundays. sometimes art is about all those nameless regrets... because what is it to regret something that was never really even a choice or a deed, simply an event... like childhood. sometimes art is only about that deep ache to be touched. sometimes art is only about the need for a good, hard slap on the ass and the fact you have to find a way to go on living tonight without it. sometimes it is so fucking Freudian there's no way around it: we want what we want. and sometimes that's all art is. sometimes that's all it possibly can be. sometimes art is just a girl, alone in her room, drunk on vodka at 2am, wanting what she wants and yet barred from it all, staring wide-eyed at her own desires and crying over their absence. sometimes art is only about longing. sometimes art is only about desperation. sometimes art is only about finding a way to believe life is worth it. sometimes art is only a way to convince yourself that your own life might actually matter, somehow, to someone else, somewhere. sometimes art is only a way to remind yourself you have a sister and you have a brother and, if not for yourself, then for them. keep drawing (breathing, working, trying, aching, striving, smiling) for them. sometimes art is only a way to keep yourself sane. sometimes art is simply a reaching toward faith. a way to build faith. a way to believe in something other than your own solitary breaths, exhaled in white puffs in a cold, empty room. sometimes art is simply the life-preserver you throw to yourself. sometimes art is the only window you've got. the only friend you've got. the only mother you've got. the only god you've got.
sometimes art is another way to pray.
sometimes i'm 8 years old again, alone and afraid of the dark, and dreaming of a savior...
i reach for my pencil. i reach for my pen. i reach for my hook. i make a drawing. i make a poem. i make a blanket. i take care of my fucking self.
sometimes that's all art is.
.
sometimes...
sometimes sometimes sometimes...
(manchmal...
quelquefois... )
sometimes art is only about your own ridiculousness...
sometimes art is only about how lonely you feel, how separate, how insecure. sometimes art is only about the text message that went unanswered. sometimes art is only about the pain that sweeps through you silently and unseen on the train as you careen home, alone, wishing there was someone to hug on the other side of your own front door. sometimes art is sentimental and sticky. sometimes art doesn't give two shits if it's pretty or not or if it's got a red face when it cries. sometimes art is only about the fact that it's fucking 2am and you're drunk and tired of feeling alone and separate and insecure and that's exactly why you're drunk in the first fucking place. sometimes art isn't about any of the fucking theories. sometimes it's about your dead mother and sometimes it's about your absent father and sometimes it's about how estranged you've become in this wide world of christian morals and families holding hands on sundays. sometimes art is about all those nameless regrets... because what is it to regret something that was never really even a choice or a deed, simply an event... like childhood. sometimes art is only about that deep ache to be touched. sometimes art is only about the need for a good, hard slap on the ass and the fact you have to find a way to go on living tonight without it. sometimes it is so fucking Freudian there's no way around it: we want what we want. and sometimes that's all art is. sometimes that's all it possibly can be. sometimes art is just a girl, alone in her room, drunk on vodka at 2am, wanting what she wants and yet barred from it all, staring wide-eyed at her own desires and crying over their absence. sometimes art is only about longing. sometimes art is only about desperation. sometimes art is only about finding a way to believe life is worth it. sometimes art is only a way to convince yourself that your own life might actually matter, somehow, to someone else, somewhere. sometimes art is only a way to remind yourself you have a sister and you have a brother and, if not for yourself, then for them. keep drawing (breathing, working, trying, aching, striving, smiling) for them. sometimes art is only a way to keep yourself sane. sometimes art is simply a reaching toward faith. a way to build faith. a way to believe in something other than your own solitary breaths, exhaled in white puffs in a cold, empty room. sometimes art is simply the life-preserver you throw to yourself. sometimes art is the only window you've got. the only friend you've got. the only mother you've got. the only god you've got.
sometimes art is another way to pray.
sometimes i'm 8 years old again, alone and afraid of the dark, and dreaming of a savior...
i reach for my pencil. i reach for my pen. i reach for my hook. i make a drawing. i make a poem. i make a blanket. i take care of my fucking self.
sometimes that's all art is.
.
Oct 6, 2013
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May 15, 2013
beautiful evening
.
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
Apr 20, 2013
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Jan 12, 2013
untitled OR go fuck yourself and i'll go fuck myself too.
.
is it all just a series of days?
is it all just a collection of moments, disparate and broken as fuck, packed in to one week or one month or one year? am i entirely without congruity? am i entirely without plan? i rack up sentences, one after the other... pages are filled. every now and then, i look back. every now and then, my own life concerns me. i mean in a deeper way then the usual self-absorption and apathy. i rack up the stitches, one after the other, and a sweater is made. or a blanket. and it feels somehow like a world has been created. but only for an evening. only for as long as it takes for me to return to apathy and the fear that maybe it really is just a series of events, a series of exchanges, disparate and broken as fuck.
is it all just a series of days?
is it all just a collection of moments, disparate and broken as fuck, packed in to one week or one month or one year? am i entirely without congruity? am i entirely without plan? i rack up sentences, one after the other... pages are filled. every now and then, i look back. every now and then, my own life concerns me. i mean in a deeper way then the usual self-absorption and apathy. i rack up the stitches, one after the other, and a sweater is made. or a blanket. and it feels somehow like a world has been created. but only for an evening. only for as long as it takes for me to return to apathy and the fear that maybe it really is just a series of events, a series of exchanges, disparate and broken as fuck.
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