Reblog | Interview: cxxxxxxxx

Thought cxxxxxxxx’s work was really beautiful. Reblogged via Interview: cxxxxxxxx — Asexual Artists

Today we’re joined by cxxxxxxxx. cxxxxxxxx is an incredibly versatile artist who has dabbled in almost everything but has most recently focused on zines. She has a great love for art and it’s very apparent this love has transferred into making zines, which are fascinating.  […]


Young Folks

My memories keep me warm until I remember they’re just memories.

I wrote that in the summer. First I was defiant, then tired, then reminiscent, but mostly I was sad. Fall came. November passed. It’s winter now.

And so it goes.

Sometimes I wonder what the sheer durability of emotion says about humanity. And whether this durability is useful at all. I wonder whether it’s a reflection of openness or brokenness or maybe just some inability to fit into social narratives. It all just seems so–so strange sometimes, I guess.

I don’t really get it. I don’t get a lot of things, but then, on the other hand, sometimes I do. I guess I don’t get things like this the way I did when I was nine and wrote about it in all my diaries. Talked about it like I was an expert, god, I was drowning in it all. I didn’t believe there were people like adult-me who couldn’t comprehend this, and I eyed those people skeptically. Now I know there are rah-rah identity politic groups that champion these experiences, and while it’s relieving, I can’t tell if it’s just another label to cozy up to. Is it identity, brokenness, problematic or necessary?

It’s hard to imagine that I used to stay up late for the sake of it. I’d stay up late to talk to people, stay up late to listen to them. Stay up late to scour the Internet for articles I’d reread not once or twice but maybe eight dozen times. At night I’ll want explanations, revelations, soul-baring-heart-revealing confessions. When I revisit certain late-night memories in my mind, there’s an odd buttery hazy glow that envelops them, and maybe that’s what I would get lost in during the summertime.


These girls, they drift in and out bleating some language I don’t understand. Eight year old me understood. Twelve year old me understood. Years later, I still don’t understand.

— — — —

Time’s weird.

It feels like the weekend although the weekend hasn’t started. It’s because I feel slow, slow and relaxed and languid, like maybe a sloth or maybe a koala. I see flashes of Tampa, Florida in my mind as I consider my slothiness. I see flashes of blue and sea as we’re on the highway. I’m trying to get the sun positioned right behind my hair. No, not like this. Like that. From that angle. I see a tiger sweatshirt and wild cats that’ll never be free. In the pictures my hair’s even more untamed than the felines prowling the space.

— — — —


I have an art crush. This is my art crush, @elesq. I wormhole through art blogs on tumblr every so often and stumble upon styles/artists I really like and this is one. Simple poignant stuff. I’d emulate it, but I feel like my style is kind of heavy–I go and try to fill in every space possible. When I attempt minimalism I’m inclined to fill in the spaces. But you’re supposed to let the space speak for itself. Like silences used for effect in plays. In conversations. In speeches where you think people have dropped off from listening so when you’re quiet they’re jarred back to attention: why aren’t you droning on anymore?

— — — —

A few days ago I wrote for the student newspaper about Sara Bareilles performing in the dorm lounge on campus. And two weeks ago I saw Hillary Clinton and Tim Kaine speak. Apparently the Clintons and Obamas will be here next week. Exciting, exciting. Since coming to college I’ve seen and photographed so many famous people–famous singers, authors, journalists, editors, celebrities, political figures. It’s really cool. For a moment while I listened to Sara Bareilles belt out Love Song I felt goosebumps on my arms. I paused from recording and really looked at her, focused on the piano, let myself bathe in the moment. Remembered the glee of being ten or eleven and going to my best friend’s house, all the while listening to Sara Bareilles. It might have been September. We crimped out hair and Photo-boothed it after. I’d gone from listening to Sara Bareilles in my room with the heart-painted-on bookcase to watching her perform in our dorm lounge.

— — — —

This is the first thing I wrote. But then I cut it up into pieces and scattered it across the screen.

Day 18: Warning

[708 days ago I trekked] onwards, onwards, [towards] the lit-up skyline [and] water’s reflected orbs [towards] the lost-and-confusion-inducing water that, every so often, would ripple with fish

[and they] leapt like the one catfish back home, the massive, lonely catfish that hung out with the turtles–

warning! you’re wrong, you’re wrong, you’re so, so wrong 

[30 Day Writing Challenge