what beauty have i lost? what beauty have i forsaken??? goddamn it! i mean, shit, Angela! what the fuck with your clumsy ass???!!! i fucking lost the last month's diary in a rental car today. jesus christ! my head is spinning. if not for being drunk, i'd be an inconsolable mess and i'm goddamn serious. those pages are my life. they are not eloquent, they are entirely messy and full of slang and all sorts of ill-manner of expression but those expressions are MINE and they are GONE. i carry my diary with me everywhere. everywhere. i need the notebook with me, bouncing against my hip in my tote bag. i need it. i NEED it and it's gone.
i can let go. i can say it doesn't matter. i can shrug and tell myself , "it's just a thing, little girl. things don't matter." but between those black and white speckled covers rests the description of the morning with X when he spoke with his young son... his small voice radiating from the receiver in to the air of the hotel room while his father lay next to me, naked, caressing my shoulder, as his southern accent filled the room, calling his boy "baby" and "precious". such unmistakable, unarguable beauty. such love. this father, this son. and this lowly girl, this stupid, inept, aching woman at his side... so awestruck by the reality that such a love can exist... a love my father never felt for me... yet instantly recognizable to my eyes, to my ears, to my heart ... it was a moment of such total, clear, undeniable beauty that two days later my heart broke under the weight of such a memory... a memory i will gladly bleed for and writhe under in pain; a memory i will gladly suffer to keep. i am blessed to have had that moment. two hours tops in a hotel room one morning in november... lost in the contents of my diary, motherfucking LOST! i hate myself so fucking much right now i have no words! i have no words. I HAVE NO WORDS because someone out there has my motherfucking diary in their hands and, hoping they love it as i do, i have to find a way to wake up tomorrow morning, make coffee, and write on loose leaf paper. i want to fucking vomit all over myself right now. i cannot believe this happened. rushing, rushing, trying to return the car on time, my precious notebook slipped from my bag and somehow i didn't notice. FUCK ME!!! GODDAMN IT!!!
if you rented the zipcar "hot pants" from the chevron on telegraph avenue tonight and found my diary, please contact me. please please please!!!! angelasimione at aol dot com
thank you and i love you forever.
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.
my artist website is here.