I went to several galleries in Chelsea this afternoon. I saw this photomontage artist I worship! She did that thing I like so much, mixing the grotesque with the girly, fairytales and porn, crude and slick. Her name is Marnie Weber and she's at the Fredericks Freiser Gallery, which must be a pretty small affair, as they are in some sort of basement. She made a very elaborate dollhouse, and took pictures of the interiors and then collaged gruesome fairy-tale sort narratives on to them, using photos of the faces of manequeins and photos of the bodies of little girls in dresses. Plus there were dancing bears, jewels, etc. It reminded me a bit of Kiki Smith's work around little Red Riding Hood, but not so carefully plotted in different media.

Mostly over that. I must give props and thanks to Mr. Buddha, who said kind things about me in his blog, and his quite the interesting blogger himself.

Many, many lawsuits.

Anyway, I want to burden you with the super sad-sack story of me getting fired. On Wednesday, I went to see the Optomistrist (okay, I can't spell!) during lunch to finally get a new pair of glasses. At the very end of the exam, the optimistrist (yes, I know about the spelling!) squirted some stuff in my eyes to do some sort glaucoma test. I had a violent allergic reaction. I started retching and had to run out of the store. After relieving my stomach on the street corner, I managed to hail a cab and go home. As soon as I got home and was able to, I called my boss and told him what happened. They next day, when I returned to work, I was fired for being unresponsible.

As I just got fired today, I decided to join Nano, etc. and write a novel in a month! Since I'll have so much free time! But probably less so once I become homeless. Since the police say, "Move along, Move along" when you really try to establish yourself comfortably on a park bench.

I got a painting accepted in the Women's Studio Center show, and the director told me I should definitely charge more for my work. Plus she said it was fantastic. Hee.

Oh, you must come. Open studios numbering at least 35, and a reading at the women's studio center on Saturday at 3pm. It's the big ugly grey building, very squat, at 21st Street and 45 Rd in Long Island City.

Mostly happy.

Okay, happier.

My poetry's here, in case you forgot.

This is a draft of something new:

A Pretty Girl and Her Mother,
the Day After

So everything's the same but nothing's
changed. You moved your house
Haven't you? Or perhaps just the
furniture's reversed. Maybe it's you.
You changed
the part in your hair,
the gap in your teeth the side
your buttons button on.
I believe it is you.
You look a little like you.
Or one or the other of us.
I'm afraid to touch your hand, there.
Right now.
It will be cold.
Like that awful mirror behind us.
On that side, again.

Please ask the cat to discontinue vomiting on my couch. Please.

Watched BTVs this evening, of course. And there's wierd little web-interactive thing going on. In the eppy, there's a little lost high-school girl (what's new) who is actually a 30 year-old actress I've seen before in several failed sitcoms (what else is new) who has a website that the characters visit again and again, and quote, etc. Okay, the eerie thing is, there actually is that website at www.cassienewton.com and it is very authentic looking. There's no little winks or nods or hidden links to WB11 or buffydotcom or nothing. And it's a free geocities site! How low class can you get? And the art shown in the girl's room in the show is on the site and there's no "real" artists' signatures, although I get the feeling that each of the paintings was done by someone else. The few give-aways to the hoax is that although the html for the pages is very sophisticated, lots of Java, etc., the paintings are scanned in very amateurishly, although the girl didn't have photoshop to crop them. Although she had photoshop to do the other stuff. So it's like they were trying to show how a teenager would do it, but weren't quite consistent. Also, the poetry is badddd. Just like many teenagers, but also just a little too good. It's just wierd to be able to see on my (computer) screen, what I just saw actors looking at on my (tv) screen.

I'm going to have to go read some Descartes now. Reassure myself that I really exisit.

This is a cool new journal I've discovered, written by someone just around the corner from me. And I mean that literally, not metaphorically.

This fashion accessory is so ugly that you'll probably see it soon on Sex and the City.

Hullo to all you faithful readers from the south! I have no idea who you are, but I can tell from my tracking device that you're southern. And that ALOT of people look up "penis bouquet" on Google. Anyway, so I went into the Strand today and managed to escape with the damage being only two poetry books, a short story collection, and book of the notebooks and photos of William Gedney. Gedney was a fantastic photographer who took photos of San Francisco in the '60's. Mostly he took black and white shots of stoned people sleeping on the floor of burnt out hotels, looking quite miserable. Hee. Flower power.

I realized after looking at several pictures of long haired, bearded, bejeweled, etc. people, that everyone still dresses like that in San Fran. Most of the pictures could have been taken yesterday. Especially along the Haight, San Franciso is stuck in one of those Star Trek time loops, where every thing repeats itself. Maybe the farther away you get from SF, the more the ripple effect from the time distortion wears off, so that in Oakland, for example, it's 1980 right now. Although I'm feeling that in Weed, California, it's still the 60's.

Anyway, I had tea today at the Plaza Hotel. It was quite swellegant, but the rich food gave me a tummy ache and I left early. Definitely not my preferred scene. You know, I'm more a lower East side kinda' gal. I sat next to the darling and vicious Yelena, who is a brillant writer and painter. And has a very pointed and forked tongue. So, amidst the rest of the company, which were mostly Christians, though (mostly) not annoyingly so, she and I spoke quite frankly about sex. She made a sex coloring book which sounds absolutely fab, and we talked about marketing ploys while I asked for advice about spicing up the scene when things are vanilla, yet satisfying, in the bedroom. Not about anyone in specific!! Geesh.

Anyway, something quite amusing and cinematic happened. Yelena likes glitzy and actually expensive jewelery, and she just happened to be wearing a dramatic and bejeweled cross. One of the Christian women who'd been sitting far away from us scooted up close and said, all friendly and crisp-like, "That's a beautiful cross. Is there a story behind it?''

Yelena paused for a moment. "Yes," she said. "My husband bought it for me and for that I was so grateful that I had wild sex with him three times." Yelena has a dramatic Russian accent, which makes everything she says sound more important than it really is.

The woman was wearing a hat with fake flowers. She retreated a bit back into the hat, like a turtle.

"Oh, and Yelena forget to add that she's Jewish," I quipped.

The woman said, "Oh yes. That's a little more information than I needed to know," and skirted quickly away.

Yelena and I gave each other a look that was the equivalent of a high five, and burst out laughing.

Yes, I know it was very immature. Very, very immature. Hee.

So there's the rant.

New Job is keeping me very busy. But I miss the light. I'm in a windowless basement, you see.

I redid my quiz. Which probably means that every one who took it already has to retake it. Oh well. I didn't leave my email so the angry hords can't reach me. Hee.

Which 20th Century Poet Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Okay, I stayed up all night making this stupid poetry quiz. I'm sure I got all the facts wrong and everything. Plus, some poets will want to sue me for slander and just general nastiness. But go on, find out which 20th Century poet are you!

Hee. Hee. I'm a "starving artist." And I didn't even have to cheat on the test.

What type of artist are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

So I asked the class to write about something that bothered them this week. I wrote about how it felt when I saw the boyfriend walk into a pizzeria with a woman. He kept touching her arm, didn't bother to introduce us, and kissed her goodbye. Then she ran out of the shop, looking at me strangely. Well, I was glaring at her. Like I wanted her dead. Which I did. When I asked the bf "who was that woman?" He answered, very good, and then turned to the cook and said, please call the police, because I'm about to get murdered.

Hah! Hah! Very funny, Mr. short-with-the-elephant-ears!

So we had a big fight. She was nobody, just a friend, you're cheating on me, no I'm not, you're a big liar, no I'm not, you're evil, no I'm not, I hate you, yes I do, please call the police, no I'm serious, Christine, take a seat, no really, don't touch me, blah, blah, blah. Etc.

Man, I hate not being able to trust. And then, I hate dating someone I can't trust. And I hate stupid emotional crisises. Really I do. Yet. I can't. Avoid. Them.

Wide Angle is looking more and more tentative. Which makes me feel like a complete dope.

i want more people in my class. Fullness, I want fullness. Maybe I can bribe people to come.

Funny, I gave everyone the words in a bag exercise (where there are a bunch of random words in a bag, and you have to choose a certain number and make a poem), and the class finished before I did. I couldn't get past "rub your cinnamon genitals against my toilet, Nightmare house." Of course I got the word genitals. Of course. I should have known when I put it in the bag, I would pick that word. Along with the word, rub.

I just finished my first poetry class. Whew. Deep sigh. Glad that's over. I was very tense, but then I got more relaxed as class went on. Ms. Babson was a great help. I asked her to call me boss lady, but no go. Instead, she offered to call me "professoressa" which is female professor in Italian. I did a couple exercises with the class; I think they went down okay. I think the first day will be the hardest, because we were just getting to know each other. I could tell the students other than Anne (there were two of them) felt sort of awkward and intimidated. One woman I'd never seen before, and I was worried she felt left out, since the rest of us were talking like old chums.

Well, I can't make everyone happy! Can I? I feel like mothering everyone, and giving them wrapped up treats and taking them gently by the hand and saying, "it will all be okay. It will."

I think everyone liked the work booklet I put together. At least, I like it. I think it's very helpful to people who are interested in poetry. Contemporary poetry, at least.

Hee, hee. Hee. Heh. haw. yoinks.
I just ran my poetry page through brunching shuttlecocks' drug identifier? I believe it's called something like that. It's one of those web translators. I think my poetry improved for it.

Objects are Closer

A cat tries to catch himself
in the mirror
again and again
As if this time he won't see himself
until it's too late.

And sometimes
I think I almost see you,
when your eyes are elsewhere,
and your face
is doing something different,
when you don't know
I'm watching.

Okay, I found out Wordsalad.net published some of my poems, because a reader wrote me to ask a question. I wish, sites, would, TELL me when they accept my work, BEFORE they post it. Still, hee. Got accepted.

And I am! King! I got the perfect job today. Starts next week. I'm going to be a therapist with a low caseload at a clinic that pays well, and is a twenty minute commute. I couldn't believe it when the director offered me the position. I was like, that's it? No more hoops to jump through? I was just overwhelmed with the happiness. So I went out and bought a lot of new shoes and shirts. Extra shoppy goodness. Yes.

Woodenfish has launched. Yeah, August! Please go check me ( I mean, it) out.

Also: since certain things in my life have changed that I won't go into, I've been noticing that my feelings have come back. This is a really odd experience. I keep thinking, "I'm out of control! I'm insane!" and then I double check and think, "no, most people would get very angry if they totally prepped for the GRE and worried and anxietized and all that, and then were denied, shall we say, fullfiment? The climax?" I think that would upset anyone.
Feelings are odd.
I'm half tempted to dispose of them again.

But. Hey. Beekiller accepted three of my poems and posted them before even telling me about it. Beekiller's a very Billsburg site for funky Williamsburg-like people. But I managed to sneak in. They also have art. And if anyone called Jon reads, the, ahem, Jon Poem -- It's not about you! I swear!

This means I may not be able to go to grad school next year, as orginally planned, because my GRE scores won't get to the schools I'm applying to until after the deadline. That is, if I wait unitl I can get a new passport. Also need money for the passport thing. Have to beg the 'rents again, for, well, rent.

My, it's unusually warm for October.