Monday, September 30, 2002

Rabbit blog has an absolutely beautiful description of why and how people write blogs. Please read! d
Oh, today is much better. All around. Tho' I haven't started studying yet for the GRE. And I keep obsessing over why I said "circumcised" rather than "circumscribed" in my last interview. That was for the job I really wanted. I think I got nervous, and when I get nervous, I use really long words. Badly.

Writing a poem called, "Black Market Boyfriend." And another called, "Red", about blue things.

Saturday, September 28, 2002

So. Things are going somewhat well. Finished three interviews this week. The last one was for a job I really want, for a good salary, at a place I've wanted to work at ever since I graduated social work school. I've interviewed at one part of the agency or another 4 times over the past seven years. The last time I had the second interview, but then I was never called back. Every time I interview there, I get really good vibes, and they seem very enthusiastic about me, but I never get the job. I'm just hoping this time, things will be different. The other two interviews were okay -- one was a third interview for a senior center (two more to go on that) and one was to work with homeless men at a brand new residence, run by people who are completely overwhelmed, but loved their jobs (they told me this about three times). I hope to be working by October 7th, that is the goal.

GRE next week. And I'm going to STUDY.

Wednesday, September 25, 2002

I discovered today, surprisingly enough, and contrary to much scientific research (as well as urban legend), that one feels better if one goes out during the day and exercises. There's something strange about sunlight and movement. Really lifts the spirits. Someone should do a study.

Anyway, must fly, as I have an interview this morning at ten. It's way in the Bronx, but the interview will be good practice, if nothing else. I leave you with an amusing quote from the newsletter.

"This brief interlude is dedicated to the millions of unheralded, hardworking blank spaces who tirelessly and with pride perform the thankless task of unbeing in order that words should remain properly held apart."

Monday, September 23, 2002

I've been doing more reading than writing lately. Besides sending my first, and probably last, spam to 400 near strangers to advertise my poetry class, I found lots of new great blogs. Which I will link to soon. One blog in Indonesia linked to my poetry page, and gave a little lecture about too much sex in poetry. But it was a polite lecture, so I respect that. Just finished faxing out 16 resumes for a job. what's the emoticon for a Buddhist prayer?

Friday, September 20, 2002

I'm definitely on the winner train today. Slept through the GRE test, and missed a job interview. Yeah, I'm a winner.

Wednesday, September 18, 2002


"There was some sort of business with a rubber strap and I felt a thunk deep in my arm. Then she was hitting my clenched fist: tapping it with her knuckles and then wiggling her finger in the center of my palm to loosen it. It felt so much like an odd, stubborn sort of fingering that I laughed. I sucked in air. I had been holding my breath.

When I left my head felt light and loose, and my thigh muscles burned. I felt like I had run a marathon. Naked."


"I can see it floating in outerspace surrounded by stars, listing slowly from side to side, the blood curving in waves from end to end, clinging in a milky, speckled red film to the inside of the tube, that's how I see my blood, once it ends up in the tubes and away from me."
Anyway, which is probably the word I use the most, other than "I", I've decided to post what I hope are interesting excerpts from old journals, before I had this blog. Above is onesuch. Not a nonsuch. Onesuch.
I left my certification of self in a cab yesterday. My passport, social security card, college degree, two grad. school degrees, social work certification. Of course, nothing with my phone number on it. I've called 12 cab companies in Astoria so far. Most of them laugh. I don't exist anymore. All my paper's gone. Plus my poetry journal.
So I've got to write something interesting here, if only to give the people at a run for their money. That's an expression my mother always uses. Along with "slicker than a greased pig" and "running around like a chicken without a head." Raised on a rural farm, my mom. The ghetto kids don't have nothing on her childhood. Sort of like Bastard out of Carolina, but not so pretty.

Saturday, September 14, 2002

Diana, stop reading my blog! You evil woman. No wonder you were wearing all black today. Oops. Right. A funeral.

Anyway, right. Okay. Can't say nothing now. I'm too embarassed. Uh, poems, right. Did I mention Mickey Z. won a NYFA grant in '97? I'm so totally impressed. So far the voting has narrowed down the range of poems. But I still need more votes, people. Do it for your country.

Friday, September 13, 2002

I've spent way too much time making this background right. But it rocks my boat. I love designing websites, even if I have to code everything by hand.
And Mickey Z. and Trish Warden have already selected their favorite poems from here. They get lollipops. Hurry, supplies are limited!
Oh, write in my tag board! It's about half-way down the page.
Of course, I'm going to miss my friends at work. And seeing the boyfriend every day. But my brain feels like it's full of helium instead of lead. Free!
I feel so free, yes, Free!! like jumping in the ocean in July when you're eight years old kind of free.
Got a new look. Probably last a week.

Wednesday, September 11, 2002

Okay, I need your help, gentle reader. And not so gentle reader. And really-when-it-gets-down-to-it, quite mean reader. I'm applying for a NYFA grant for poetry in a few weeks, and I'm trying to figure out which ten poems to send. Please go here, pick your ten favorite, and email me the results. Send the titles of the poems, along with numbers showing how they rank in your estimation. I'll send you a cookie.

Sunday, September 08, 2002

That is to say.
And I'm getting published much. Got acceptance notices from Taint, Burning Word and Whalelane. I'm quite surprised and more than a little elated.
So, miles of fun with the curdled milk men of Mr. Colby last night. Much interesting interaction involving feathers, hats, apples and pink tights. Oh, and words. Lovely words.

Tuesday, September 03, 2002

And, props to a friend and blog-reader, Mr. Colby, who is having a show in the East Village (of course) this coming weekend. To quote:

""The Grandest Insanity Poetry has yet." -The Los Angeles Times
Come and watch the Yogurts Saturday, September 7 at 10 PM
at the legendary Bowery Poetry Club 308 Bowery @ Bleecker,
right across from CBGB's
F train to Second Ave | 6 train to Bleecker | 212-614-0505
only $5"

You should all go. I even cancelled with the boyfriend for Saturday, seeing how he's sabotaged every other social engagement I planned on attending with him. So I can wait to make sexo until Sunday, I'm not desperate or nothing.

Don't listen to what they tell you.
Right, as I mentioned, I'm getting paid for two poems. Yippee. No, I mean that. At C/Oasis. Whatever the hell that title means. I think I submitted these poems 3-4 months ago. Anyway, Taint picked up The Empty Bed, and I'm getting some nonfiction published at I'm also working on a review of "Signs" which I think is fantastic-- not the review, the movie. I've already cooked up references to Nabokov, who wrote a short story, "Signs" and Checkov. It's all in the movie, I swear. It's very, but not intrusively, post-modern, or even maybe, post-post modern, which would be, what, stop-modern, if you want to get a little pig-latiny with it, and why not.
So my holiday weekend was eventful, and not in a good, "had a barbeque with friends" kind of way. I got to that spot again, the place that I hate but seem to always end up in, where I'm caring for a previously kind and loving significant other who has become psychotic/blind drunk/completely high, and is threatening me implicitly or explicitly with death or bodily harm. This time I did a little better job of taking care of myself. I mean, after he spilled beer all over the apartment, fell and hit his head more than a few times, called me a "puta" 50 times and worst of all, HURT MY CAT, I realized that he needed to leave my apartment, pronto. Of course, it took me an hour after that decision to actually get him out the apartment door, and then there was the cab drive from hell where he kept arguing with the driver and giving him directions (wrong, directions) but eventually I got him dropped off at his apartment. Of course, he was a little confused when I didn't climb out of the cab with him and instead sped away into the rain. I actually had to yell at the cab driver, GO, now, drive! go! just like in the movies. Mucho excitement.

Donch'a hate it when that happens.
Then he actually apologized the next day, which was a first for me. Usually I get scoffed at.