I injured the ego of the therapist I supervise on Wednesday. The thing is; I know she's not really a therapist. She doesn't do therapy, more a form of behavior management. So we clash a lot. I try to get her to see things pyscho-analytically and psychodynamically, but she really doesn't like to question why the children do the things they do. Her reasoning is, "they're just lazy," or "they just want to do what they want to do." She's not interested in helping the kids with deep structural change. So I got sort of pushy when she was telling me about a case where a 13 year-old girl was kicked out of a foster home for having boys over when the foster mother wasn't around. The therapist was really mad at the child and wanted to talk to her about deserving what she got. I suggested rather strongely that she try to be on the side of the child, as the child was probbably feeling rejected and alone. This REALLY pissed her off. To try to realign my self with the THERAPIST, because I knew our relationship had suffered, I apologized the next day. But she's still very angry at me, and now she's telling me what to do.

There's nothing that gets me faster than people who are not my boss telling me what to do. So I'm angry.

Sorry I don't have any exciting psychological drama. I'm feeling pretty calm and in control. I AM as usual obsessing over tiny slights. A friend told me I must have OCD because I keep going over and over tiny words or phrases that people said to me, thinking what did that mean? and how am I going to respond next time I see them? generally getting more and more angry and upset. Not very buddhist-like of me.

The job interview on Friday went okay. The woman who interviewed me was hard to read. Although I did notice that when she was showing me the building other employees seemed to cringe in fear when she walked by. Also that as she said good morning to every one she checked her watch to see what time they were getting in. Not terrible good signs, those.

If I have nothing to say, I might as well say nothing with style.

Tired of the uptight "all-white" look.

Cause it won't load this new fucking template right.

blogger is killing me.

I was looking over what google searches led to my site. One particularly imaginative one was "Devil+having+sex+with+angel" by a German, which led me to discover this site. It's for those whose jeans are so baggy you can read the tommy label on their boxers, whose t-shirts are so loose they can fit themselves and two friends in, and who have broken so many bones skating they've lost count. Or for people who pretend to be like that. Sort of like me. Faux-psuedo skater fan. Anyway, they have a very cool 50 word fiction section, which has inspired me to start some pieces. I'll be posting.

So I have two job interviews set up. I am v. happy. I can't wait to leave my job. Write me a reference, oh gentle reader?

but anyway, a new poem:
Cat Licking Pizza
So delicate
the strokes
an old master
at a painting
like the first
brush of lips
before the biting
begins.

I faxed out ten resumes today.

More Evidence that People Visit My Apartment While I'm at Work

1. One extra dirty fork in the sink.
2. Cats have moved from the positions they were in when I left.
3. Toilet not flushed.
4. Inflatable bed is slightly deflated.
5. Water is dripping from bathroom faucet.
6. Bedroom door not completely closed.
7. Airconditioner is on.
8. NYtimes Book review is on LEFT front side of couch, when I left it on the RIGHT front side.
9. Light in bathroom on.
10. Cats mewing, and gathering oddly around their food bowls.
11. Kitchen cabinet door not securely closed.
12. Books in bookshelf not alphabetized.
13. Cigarette butt near front door.
14. Refrigerator magnets not parallel to sides of refrigerator.
15. Shampoo bottle half-empty.

Maybe I've simply been on vacation from my life for a while, and haven't realized it.

I saw that horrific "Meet My Parents" tonight. Yes, exactly like a car wreck. I couldn't move from my seat to pee I was so transfixed by the carnage. It was so medieval. Literally. It was medieval Europe, relations with a woman are brokered through her father. She's just a transaction between two men. But on top of that, the potential "boyfriends" were completely castrated by the whole process. The princess turned to Tom Cruise at one point, (he was Tom Cruise, I swear -- okay, Tom's Clone) she turned to Tom's Clone and said, "you're just a real little horndog, r'ncha'? I think we should just cut off your little dingle there and teach you a lesson." So much of the show was just about humiliating the princes. I, of course, was routing for Brandon on 90210, but he was too crafty and snotty (one of the lie detector questions the Dad asked him was, "Do you think you're smarter than me?" and Brandon lied and said, "uh..No?") Besides being short. And having dated a black woman.
So of course, Dad, in a true fascistic fashion, choose the Nazi-lookalike, Dolph Lundgren. At the end there was a group hug, and they all embraced and weeped about the beauty of their middle class, American whiteness.

Andy is at Dixon Place this Friday: you must go! He's a wonderful guy. Great reader/performer. Writes about sex way funnier and better than me. I still remember some of his lines from Potty Mouth that I heard about 6 months ago, especially the bit about how passive aggressive guys ask for blow jobs -- they slowly push your head down there.

There must be a god; who else could be responsible for the Giant Blue Freeze Pops?

Some highlights from yesterday:

Ella Smith's poetry: God is here, and boy is she fat!
Mr. Magic's nervous and adorable dropping of balls during his juggling act. (Give him a break -- it's his first show in five years!)
The Goddess Pearlman's 2 inch long glitter eyelashes, and her song about shoplifting, dedicated to Ms. Ryder.
My neighbor in the spot next to me, a real graffiti artist, Fab 5 -- I think -- who oh so kindly gave me a t-shirt just for watching his paintings when he was away for five minutes.
All the cute boys who introduced themselves. And then introduced their wives/girlfriends five minutes later.
And of course, Olga, for patiently sitting next to me and for introducing me to all her cool artist friends.

blogger error!

Then there was scenes about demons and ghosts emerging from the bottom of this strange swimming pool in the basement of our house. Also being chased and bitten by swimming tigers. But that probably really happened.

I dreamt last night about the devil and my family. I dreamt that my cousin and many others moved into my parents house in California, and I was still living at home. I think we were all teenagers. It alternated between my parent's house, and a really grim looking gothic orphanage. All the other children (who didn't belong, as I kept telling them) kept impinging on my space. I was also in college, and they kept using my computer, and sitting on my notebooks when I was trying to do class work. Just generally getting in my way. I ended up trying to strangle the boyfriend of my cousin because he kicked me. Everyone was pretty much ignoring my complaints until Faith from Buffy the Vampire Slayer showed up. She told me she would kick anyone's ass who messed with me. This made me quite happy.

But I still didn't make enough to pay the phone bill! Snark. Gotta start knocking over the deli downstairs. Do you think they would recognize me in a ski mask?

But I didn't sell as much as last year, or make as much money. This made me irritable. But I know it shouldn't. Nobody else I saw sold anything. I have to have an attitude adjustment. This kind of event cannot be about making money. All the other artists, who were selling stuff for real prices, didn't expect to sell. It's about the exposure and meeting people.

The artfair yesterday was a big success. Met lots of nice artists. Had lots of good comments about my work. The worst part, which wasn't SO awful, was that several people recognized that the heads I did Saturday were copies of McGee. At least it gave us somethign to talk about.

According to my stats, nobody's really reading this anymore, which is good. I was starting to get hatemail. Made me rethink the whole blog project.

I am so exhausted. I spent all day preparing for the Art Fair tomorrow, and I haven't recovered yet from the flu. I'm not sure if it's really the flu, or just a reaction to all the hormones my doctors are pumping into me. I think my resistance has been lowered alot. I made 6 tiny paintings today, to sell tomorrow real cheap, in the style of the graffitti artist, Twist, or McGee. Okay, not only in the style of, but a blantant rip-off. I hope it's not too hot tomorrow. Please come. Yes. I'm selling some pieces for 15 bucks. Once again, it's at the 30th Ave subway stop in Astoria, on the N line, 30th Ave and 29th Street, in the bricked up park where all the teenagers skate at dusk, where Athena stands, looking really dorky.

When I have a fever, my sense of touch is hieghtened. I feel the creases of cloth on my calves from my dockers, and the scratch on my thigh where my cat dug in and jumped seems to sing to me. My fingernails itch from their polish. I feel how greasy and limp my hair is, but I'm too tired to shower. I just crawl from my aero-bed underneath the air conditioner to my computer, and back again. Then my cats forced me to crawl to the deli for cat food. I don't know if I should indulge this eating addiction. Lots of cats go for weeks without eating, I keep telling them. But they demand to be fed DAILY. What's that about?

When I was obeying my cats, I picked up a coffee hagen daz for myself. The summer after I graduated from college, before I got accepted to grad school, I lived in a nasty Portland apartment with the man I hopelessly loved and hated and his two snotty, artistic and pathetic room mates. I was, of course, the most snotty, artistic and pathetic of the four of us. There was a 7-11 next to the apartment building, and that summer I lived on foodstuffs from there, mostly coffee hagen daz, raspberry poptarts, and cheetos. The man and I fought most of the time, and I spent half my days curled up on the futon on the floor, sobbing, while he sat up and looked at the ceiling in disgust. Then every weekend I would go stay with my other boyfriend down the block. He wasn't an artist, so there was a lot less drama, a lot less competitiveness, a lot less "your writing sucks" and badly concealed giggling. So of course he was less attractive to me. I believe he's an ambassador in Russia right now, or something.

Just say no to kittens.

I'm working on a poem on Henry Darger, the psychotic, prolific folk artist who made thousands of drawings and stories about naked girls with penises being tortured. Darger, he saw the inside of us, he knew the danger of little girls, even with watercolor butterfly wings they can't be trusted.

oh, the coding is messing up. The font jumps up and down in size. Makes it look interesting, tho.

So this is the new look. I hope you like. I was getting sick of the trailer trash/kitsch of the old one.

The ART FAIR is directly off the 30th Avenue Subway Stop in Astoria. Take the N train to Astoria, and get off at 30th Ave. It's on Sunday, July 21st, 10-6PM. Free licorice with purchase. You can preview some of the stuff I'll have at my portfolio (look to the right column).

I saw the beta version of the magazine I write and edit for, Wide Angle. It was so fantastic. It's going to blow the Voice out of the water. You can go to the website to order a copy in a couple weeks: www.wideanglenyc.com. The site won't be up for a few weeks. The design is so great. You all must buy ad space. Must. Buy.

I love this color green. It's what I painted my wall before it all flaked off again. So what if it's industrial, janitor green!

Martha loves it!

In other, much more appropriate and less personal news, I am going to be selling some, or hopefully, all, of my paintings at the Art Fair this coming Sunday. Miss Olga will be sharing my space, making me look bad with her much superior work. Last year I had a wonderful time, sold about 20 pieces, all of which I miss horribly, but it was time to let go. It was also a great time to meet other artists -- that's how I first started connecting with all the other artsy and poesy folk in Astoria. My motto was and will forever be, "Paintings for sale or swap." If you have some art I really like, we can do a trade. Also, if you're a close personal friend, or pretend to be, you might get a piece for free.

I've been cleaning like a madwoman this weekend. Hauled out 6 more 30 gallon bags of garbage. My bedroom is still a disaster. I tried painting the peeling, sagging, bubbly wall in my living room, only to have the new paint peel and sag some more. I'll try again tomorrow.

I've been trying to avoid thinking, I'm so hyper active nervous about work. It seems from all sorts of odd, random things that have been happening, that my department is going to close soon. Uggh. Plus, add to the list of things I should know by now: 42. Never date anyone from work.

Every time I date a new man, I end up wishing I just taken the easy way out and hit myself in the head with a hammer again. Instead of getting my hopes up. At least you're certain with the hammer. Wham. Bam. No thank you, Ma'am.

I spent the eveining tonight going to *Cafe Bar and *Tupelo (Woah, *Astoria hot spots*) with the darling Miss Olga. Much of said evening was spent dispensing relationship advice to said Olga, although with many disclaimers about being a walking, woman-shaped, flypaper trap for bad relationships. Boy, that metaphor really worked, didn't it. I impress myself.

Man, I hate the break-up speach. Although it has gotten easier. I just got to remember to always do it over the phone, and cut things short so we don't get into the real reasons I never want to see your mug again. Ever. Never is too soon.

(Clears throat.) "I just don't think we have any chemistry. No, our personalities just don't mesh. I'm just not feeling it. Sorry. I wish it could have worked out."

See? Isn't that better than, "Ever since you told me about trying to strangle your ex with a belt after she sliced you with a broken bottle, I've had my doubts. Like, quick-run-the-other-way-doubts."

I seemed to have regressed to about age 16. Every thing feels so intense and shiney all of sudden. Plus all the Nirvana songs seem to speak directly to me.

I will find the center in you. I will chew it up and leave. Trust me.

I just remembered how much I liked Richard Brautigan in high school. I love his style. It's so flat. It feels like the antidote to mine -- I'm so hyper and purple, like if I don't scream I can't be heard. I remember reading his story about the abortion before I knew what one really was. It still seemed terrifying.

This person refers to September 11th as "the day they shook the snow globe." I really like that. It kinda sneaks up on you. And this was just a nice little childhood piece.

Life sucks.

I want to stick my head in the toilet and flush. Arggh.

I gotta stop being a social worker and start being a dominatrix.

So I've actually found some good links. Women in Refrigerators (the title is actually a little more intriguing than the page) and Googlenews. Cause that's what a blog's supposed to do.

I've vowed to stop writing stuff in this blog about people I know and just respect everyone's privacy. Because, in some cases, this blog has just become a form of passive-aggressive communication.

Ha.

I crack myself up. I hope you enjoyed that.

Yeah, you. You're going to be reading about yourself. You.

Loft Poem

In your loft
with the lights low
we sit talking
as I want to fuck you
speechless.

I look into your pretty
brown eyes and
will your fist up my cunt.
We talk about politics,
spirituality, the knicks,
who gives a fuck?

I try to radiate sex juice
in your direction.
If I get any more frustrated,
these dirty windows will shatter
like when a soprano hits a high "C".

I hint that I'm "a woman with a past."
I hint that I'm "easy."

It's 4am and my throat is sore
from all this goddamn intellectualizing.
I'm dizzy from lust, fatigue
and your cigarette smoke.

I say I need to get to bed.
You gesture towards the couch
and slouch off towards your room.

You wish!

In five minutes I knock on your door
and let myself in.

Your belly is soft, concave
and covered in darling brown curls.
Your cock tastes of piss and scented
toilet paper.
Then just of cock.

Afterwards, I whine into my hand,
"Four hours of talk!"
You are hurt,
crease your sweet brow and say,
"What? You didn't enjoy our conversation?"

And, unfortunately, I will no longer be the opening act for Ladies' Choice at the Charleston. Because Ladies' Choice is not going back to the Charleston, ever, after that last... show. (Clearing throat.) Oh well. Plenty of other places to read. I think I'm going to get real ambitious and go for Dixon Place.

Shampoo accepted one of my poems! This is a great big deal! It is! Shampoo is The Atlantic of funky, low-budget, non-paying on-line poetry zines. They publish many great poets. You know who you are. They accepted The Addict Renames the Days, which goes to show you, poems with gimmicks are the most successful, if not necessarily best.

So, I'm about to lose what pitiful readership I have if I don't "insert" "something" useful "here." The problem is not that I have nothing to say, but rather too much.

I just found my obit: Christine HAMM; Sheffield, AL; age 68. Sept 6th, 1997. And I thought I felt strange for the past five years.

The fireworks were pretty. I'm reading a good book of poetry, Directions to my House, by Robyn Selman. Gave me ideas for new stuff to write.

But hey: I have an airconditioner. A lady (who speaks no English) is coming to my house Saturday to clean. This is a wonderful thing. My kitchen might actually stop being so scary. I will no longer have to carry a cross when I enter it. And I got 3 homies. They came from a vending machine on Bedford Avenue. A homie clown, a homegirl complete with long hair, long nails, and a zoot suit pants, and a homie rapper with a gold chain and a mic. Sometimes it's the little things.

I'm going to the greatest party on the planet this evening, the 4th of July de Lisa! Every year my friend Lisa has this party, which always rocks. She lives on Waterside Plaza, which is in the twenties and on the East River. She's so close to the fireworks that when they go off, her windows rattle like they're going to break. When you stand in the plaza to watch, you can feel the explosions in your chest. It almost interrupts your heartbeat. It's like triple those Dolby sound advertisements in movie theaters.

The Curse (see below) was accepted by Woodenfish! It's the first piece of fiction they accepted for their inagural issue in September. I'm very pleased. hee.

A confession: when I was a little girl, I was addicted to shocking pink, and demanded that my mom paint my bedroom that color. I'm talking way beyond pepto-bismol pink. I'm talking vibrating, hurts your eyes pink. When we were selling the house so we could move to California, she painted it all over, which made me cry. I used to measure the heights of my stuffed animals with a crayon on those walls, to check and see if they were growing. My mom has always been a bit of DIY'er, so a lot of my furniture was mismatched and half-painted with sloppy, ambitious colors. Okay, so she was a depressed, alcoholic DIY'er, but it's the thought that counts. She gave me permission to be a slob. Which let me be very creative... but also, I'm still a slob!

Can you imagine being a child and having a room like this?


What a nightmare. How 'bout just shoving that femininity down your girl's throat, mom. What's also annoying is that you can tell that the kids had no input to this. It's a magazine's idea of a little girl's room. There's no room for spontaneous weirdness, which, we all know, is what kids are really about.

Some German dude got my blog translated. It's fun to read in German. Makes me feel sophisticated, or sumting.

I wrote this one about 8 years ago, and I'm trying to rewrite it.

To You with Your Thing in Your Hand

Aphrodite's turned 50.
She creeps out of the ocean, and
this time no one comes
running with gauze.

Her eyes no longer crook like the finger of a Penthouse Pet
but take your measure and look
away.

Breasts
that once invited,
rising like bread to your tongue,
have hardened into
wooden paddles.

You've been bad.

Black bees hum in the back of her throat.

What was that, Honey?
you say.

The beekeeper smiles
While there's still time

Run
and take it with you.

Wow. I just got three poems accepted here. I just submitted them three hours ago and they're going up tomorrow. This is a great zine, btw, for you struggling musicians. It's mostly a music review. Improvijazzation Nation.

Quoting, "Only when I write do I feel well." Kierkegaard. Sorry. I wish they had some sort of twelve step group for intellectuals. A relapse would be, well, quoting Kierkegaard. Plumbers and carpenters could be our sponsors.

HOT PIX!! ALL NUDE GIRLS!! Okay, so it's not porn, exactly. These are the three paintings I finished this weekend. My favorite is the last one because it reminds me of that painter that does everything upside down and Francis Bacon.

I found the coolest new site. It's an art collective based in willies' burg. Search the site for a poet by the name of Furr. She rocks. Also, Bee Killer is having a party this weekend.

Email me things you should have learned by now and I'll post them.

Things I should have learned by now, part deux:

by the Zombie

1. People really don't care how extensive my MP3 collection is.
2. Movie buffs are just people who can't accept that they're not capable of making their own movies.
3. I am not as attractive to homosexuals as I think I am.
4. Life is not like a porn movie.
5. It's still illegal, regardless if I get caught.
6. Pretending that I am a conneisseur of fine foods, owning numerous handheld gadgets, and claiming stakes to liking excellent movies and music does not actually compensate for not having any real redeeming qualities that girls would find attractive, nor a small penis.