of death and shame

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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. 

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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.

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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.


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let me keep mine

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in my sadness, i spin the record.  in my sadness, i lift my shirt over my head.  slowly now, slowly, slowly, as if you were in the room. 

in my sadness, i look at my tits in the mirror.  i walk slowly toward that silver surface and grace my pink nipples across that slick, chilly surface slowly, slowly, as if it were your chest.  the cold shocks me.  i was expecting your warmth despite my games of pretend.  this bourbon has got the better of me. 

i imagine my fingers belong to you.  these are your fingers in my hair.  these are your fingers smearing my lipstick.  these are your fingers teasing the waistline of my panties while thom york sings "immerse yourself in love".  i'll lift your shirt off and i promise i won't look at you as if you are a fantasy or a holiday.  i'll look at you like what you are:  i'll let you be a man.

for as much as i love fantasies, i'm tired of them.  somewhere along the line, i grew up.  suddenly, i prefer reality.  i want the scars on your hips and the sordid details of your past and all the horrors of your upbringing.  i want your mouth on mine and i'll let you keep your secrets...

let me keep mine.

let me keep some sense of pride.

let me keep a dry eye, love.

if you give me anything, give me that.


...


pink lipstick and photographs the one-hour photo up the road won't develop.  who am i becoming?  anne says i fell in to a wrinkle in time...   those years i spent in such atrocious agony, those hours i spent wrestling with guilt over the simplest of wants, the simplest of desires...  that wasn't me.  this girl, here, now, with a fifth of shitty vodka in the freezer and a filthy mouth, topless and unapologetic, longing to disgust every single person who still might lay claim to a shared heritage because we were brought up on too many lies...

i can't look at myself without wanting to show you who i really am.

i don't care the consequence.

the mirror is a lover and the mirror is a challenge.

the mirror is you.



i have become entirely singular.  i have never been more myself than i am today.  i want to show you.  if you're going to look away, do it now.


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open-mouth kisses

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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.

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.


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these inconsistencies (don't cry)

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(Maybe it is true that I am an ugly girl.

An inconsistent, selfish woman.)

There is a mirror in the corner and it is watching.

There is a mirror in the corner

and it is a tape recorder.   Your step-father will know everything.

I look at my chin in the mirror and see it is too big.  Too big for you to love me.  Not big enough to keep you from fucking me but definitely too big to keep you from holding my hand on the street.  I am a simple and inconsistent woman and such an ugly girl to boot!  It’s true!  Don’t argue, it only makes you look stupid.  And every now and then stupid is worse than ugly.  Ask anybody.  My sister and I learned early that the best thing we could ever do is win the love of a man.  Our mother beat it in to us with her big curls and big lips.  Her big lips all done up in Yummy Plummy lipstick.  Don’t forget your push-up bra.  I was never beautiful when I was around her.  Who would have thought so?  Look at her.  Look at her lips and her hair and how tall and thin.  That isn’t me.  That was my mother.  I didn’t even come close.  And then she died.  It wrecked my eyes and my heart and all of my soft, aching insides.

I look at this man

his blond hair

and think    don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry

Such big, beautiful words falling

from his big, knowing hands.  Hands

that have turned so many

pages of the sacrosanct and

fell so gently upon

the nipples of so many

aching women.

How I ache!

How I ache!

Where are you?  Where are you now?

When there is nothing I’d love better than to waste away below the sweat of an angry hand. 

Let me shy away from your gaze.  I want to feel afraid of you. I want to be crass below your touch, say all the horrible words that embarrass me later in the day and cry your name out against your tangled sheets.  I want your fist in my hair.  I want your cock up my ass.  I want you to slap my face and smile against my hot cheek.  I see myself becoming a corpse and so I want to get fucked as hard and often as I can.  You seem like a man who might see the necessity of all this. 

It’s been so long since I’ve cried in front of anyone.

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as always, critique is welcome.  angelasimione at gmail dot com

i want to be good at this.

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.

poor is the man...

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beautiful darling

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to be bold and naked at your side...