these texts are an archive of my life in the San Francisco Bay Area from march 2007 - march 2015. it stands as a record of close to a decade of my life, charting the struggles i faced as an artist, daughter, and lover. messy and chaotic at times, eloquent and poetic at others, these texts are an index i am proud of. it was here in this electric box that i learned how to be honest about my experiences and the person i needed to become. it was here that i first learned the truism that words make the world and how to trust such a beautiful, rife, hard fact.

thank you for meeting me here in such tall grass.

my artist website is here.

Oct 21, 2012


yesterday at work, my friend jamal asked me if i ever think of putting a book together.  i think about it on a regular basis but only as something which may or may not exist in my nebulous, dreamy future.  it's always been a fantasy but ever since i wrote my letter to kate i've been thinking about end points for my writing.  i've been thinking that maybe some pieces should have a different outlet than this blog.  i mean, i tend to think of my blog as a performance space so it is definitely fitting to test drive certain artworks and poems here.  it is definitely part of the performance itself to engage in certain levels and modes of exposure, to move quickly and attempt bravery inside writing.  but the thought of a new form of publication is actually a bit scary for me and i wonder why that is?  i'm not at all afraid of rejection.  i've been rejected enough to have built up a very thick skin when it comes to that and do not take it personally in the least.  in fact, most of the time i receive a rejection letter for an artistic endeavor, i usually end up agreeing that i wasn't the best fit for the project.  but writing is so much different from my visual practice in one key way: i don't know how to end a piece of writing.  i can go on and on in the folds and flips of a poem.  i can go one writing endlessly.  hence my appreciation for the blog format.  i have no clue where The End actually is or how to make one.  maybe there is no end to writing at all?  maybe an End is totally arbitrary and i should simply allow myself to keep working on this 6,000 word secret poem of mine until the end of the year , reign it in, begin the horrible process of editing, and then begin something else?  at very least, volume 2 of the same, long, dirty poem? 

i guess i just put so much stock in writing, so much faith in words that i want to be able to organize something as beautifully as possible and i have no clue how to do that.

i'm afraid of being a bad writer. 


Anonymous said...

at least i´d buy your book, honestly. i love your work, your photos, sweaters, paintings, poems.... yes, everything is a performance. our lives. life itself.
why not a book by you? we need new talents on our bookshops, libraries!


angela simione said...

thank you so much, yolanda! i am so appreciative of all your encouragement. i've always dreamed of putting a book together. it's definitely something i think about more and more. after the semester ends, i can put a bit more time toward editing and who knows? maybe i'll end up with something worth sharing?


Anonymous said...

that would be great!