astrid westvang CC
There was a door that said angel room on it in this UU church that i was hiding in- my EX had shown me the roof top across the black asphalt parking lot to sleep on top of but i had also seen others who scared me out there, shadow people, like me. I wonder if my presence scared anyone else like me. My mind decided to go into scheming survival mode that comes from making split second decisions that result in life or death and having protected this body from those who see it as damaged and thus a perfect receptacle for their abuse in psychological, physical, sexual and social forms from a pretty young age as i encounter a recollection 1st of such things, like a torrential wave of split second memory in looped tapes. Instead of climbing up with my cramps and bloody bruised yet beautiful body after fucking in a false and deranged sensual intimacy with my by most people's standards evil, insane yet somehow through the talent of his sprayed visions of his name upon walls around the world and also that it didn't quite seem intentional because he is so clearly deranged from early childhood and drug abuse redeemable boyfriend in the ravine, i hid. and i watched. and i waited. to go into this church you see here- the one i had first gone to therapy at during my 20th year of life, feeling desperate and helpless, after everything that had happened in Oakland. FBI agent raids and stolen cars and violent insecure jealous girls. I was 24 then.
Do you want to know what i did then? Well, I waited till a church meeting was in session. slipped in through the wooden door with with perfect, delicate stained glass into the warm light of a marble mud room then of course down a putrid yellow lit hallway to find a closed and empty room to charge my phone in. i remember dozing off quite slightly, sitting and staring into space as it were. THIS church. it reminded me of the daycare building at my catholic grade school with the carpet and ever present hum that came from old florescent lights in a semi underground building.
How do i recount and recall memories that feel sliced apart and picked and patched and matched in free form wept from cold chamomile castes of smoke and hot drops of pain, trauma and alcoholic seizures dew
- when such people as well respected philosophers and the poor people who are called schizophrenic who the rich thinkers take a lot from in the first place then push away as to be the winners of the whole game
- talk about non linear reality i am like well, yeah duh this is how my brain functions. Hiccuped stories come after scissors, concussions, burst balloon panic attacks, weazing telegrams from my magic fingers that weave paper plastic and fiber (are the materials of this piece)
- fragile nerves form calloused hands.
i was found with a gasp by the wide eyed winky grounds keeper. I was not sure if he was going to kill me or not after all. He was magical also though which, in the context of light or death made not such a stable report as to his blood lusting tendencies for homeless young women.
*Special thanks to GG Lomas and Iva Delic for their special audio-musical narration of Angel Room.
Alice Aster AKA Lilumnia is a installation artist, writer, musician, costume designer and theater/ puppeteer/ performance artist based out of NYC and New Orleans, LA. She is a founding member of the international artists collective CELF- (Catabasis Exaltation Liberation Front)- an anti-institution, anti-capitalist spiritual/religious collective that consists of lower class shadow feminine mystics creating outdoor installations and poetic-situationist theory that confronts the confines of capitalist society upon magical mad women and femmes thru ritual theater, political actions and creating situations in which we can thrive in our intensity and entirety of enchantment. She Has Organized and Directed performances with other radical, DIY collaborators around the world and made installations through Lubov Gallery in Chinatown, NY, At the French Embassy in NY, At Art Basel in Miami, At the Anarchist Theater Festival in Montreal, at The Mudlark Public Theater in New Orleans and throughout the hidden and visible public spaces of our streets, hearts and minds. She is the Author of the Madness and Witchcraft- A Mad Witch Manifesto, Exorcism of the Domesticated Wildflowers, and Powers of Whorer. She is chronically ill and in school getting a masters herbalist degree in trauma informed clinical herbalism with a focus on the intersections of complex developmental trauma and mad witches (also known as crazy people). She never went to college, is a highschool drop out and is a white trash freak queer.
Narrator: Gina is a poor (wo)man’s poet. She is educated in heartbreak, loss and grief; with achievements in degradation, shame and contempt. She has the highest accolades in mental illness diagnoses, and she is her therapist’s favourite patient (uncredited). You might recognize her from notable presentations of bathroom graffiti, intrusive thoughts, and shadows in the corner of your eye. Small town bred, big city livin’ fat girl who has been torn apart and reassembled again a thousand times over.
Composer: Iva Delic writes music fuelled by emotional awareness and intelligent storytelling. Her catalogue spans genres. Most notably, her work has screened internationally (TiFF’s Canada Top 10, Raindance, DOC LA, etc.). She is a resident of the Canadian Film Centre and an active member of the Screen Composers Guild of Canada.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.