a thing nobody wants done.

April, 1995, work

Had the first appointment with the new shrink, Judith. Not sure how I feel about her. She seems kind of harsh, I don’t know.

Her office is all groovy Santa Fe style with knickknacks everywhere, she has braids with beads in them, and her two dogs laying around. She was shaking her head no the whole time I was talking, I don’t even think she was aware of it, it was like she couldn’t believe how fucked up I was.

At the end she said okay, we’ll see each other Mondays and Thursdays, and I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t made up my mind about her. But I guess I’ll go on Monday and see how I feel then. I’ll have to go before work, 7:30, fortunately it’s only three blocks away.

Dear Maddy,

How come we hate each other so much now? Why do we have to sulk and avoid each other’s eyes? Sometimes I feel like you blame me for all the misery in the world.

Maybe we shouldn’t have tried to get so buddy-buddy so fast, not realizing the amount of time we were going to have to spend together. If you have a complaint with me for chrissakes spit it out as calmly as possible and try not to deliberately hurt my feelings and I’ll be glad to listen.

Geez, I don’t think I’ve ever been evil to you, and if I put Davis down I was only trying to be supportive of you, and also projecting my own shit with Jack on him. I don’t hate the guy but I was appalled at how he puts you down all the time. I remember those kind of putdowns.

Okay, we’re way too involved in each other’s lives, it’s true! I don’t know what to do about it.

Later, Roger Smith Hotel

I’ve come to a place to do a thing nobody wants done.

The problem with performance poetry is it’s interesting as neither, and there’s no audience. I’m at the penthouse of this hotel: Long haired women in dresses, men with fat faces hailing each other with vigor. His novel is forthcoming. Is that a published work? No it’s forthcoming.

A plethora of wire rims. Buckminster Fuller designed this ceiling. I congratulate myself from my chair. How do you know X. He looked better before he straightened his teeth. Holding themselves by the lapels. I like to watch men put their hands on each other when its okay. Straight men touching each other and having it be okay.

I’m on the balcony and I feel like a plane, like I’m moving. I’m swaying in the height.

Back inside. Free wine is so agreeable, the nut paste on my teeth so much like meat. I hate when poets try to make their introductions of poets sound like poems. I think this is monotonous crap. Look at the way she fritters her hand, like it makes the words go somewhere. And the way she writes all these poems for other poets – cannibal. What does any of it mean? I hate this anti-meaning crap.

Oh Janice, you’re just jealous that the bitch wrote something down. This all means something very important to her, or supposedly she wouldn’t have written it down. I wish I cared about anything enough to want to write it down.

When I was younger, I wanted to write great, meaningful things so the whole world would be better for them. Now I think I can only be a writer if I get over not having anything important to say. Because why me? Why anybody? What’s been worth reading? Nothing stays with me.

A poem for Jackson:

The Race

“Time out,” he called,
because he was losing.

I hate the charade of dropping food on the floor, pretending I have some business here. I finished my wine. It must be time to go.

(To read the girl bomb diaries in chronological order, click here.)