Here we are again

Dear February,

In twenty days you'll christen me a bright shiny twenty eight.

I feel so young.

I am so young.

Twenty nine Februaries: good name for a boy band, and then it pretty much stops there.

Now, to the nineteen year olds I share a classroom with; I'm a three headed dinosaur.

Well, guess what ya long legged Christians, I read the spark notes and,

People live forever now a days.

The bitches.

I write four checks a year in the amount of eighty two dollars and fifty cents.

So do the three distant siblings on the east coast.

This is Linda's life insurance policy.

She cannot make those payments.

She has nothing.

She lives in low income housing for the elderly.

She can get a hot lunch in her building every day for one dollar.

That's all she eats.

That and coffee.

The latest problem is something with her bones.

When I googled the medical terminology for said problem,

the one in sibling #1's e-mail,

the one that sounded particularly cold,

I got a lot of post menopausal garble,

and a life size portrait of sally Field.

Or was it Jamie Lee?

Linda's middle name is Lee.

But, Linda Lee is not at all how she appears to the outside eye.

She's best described as Veronica, or maybe Violet.

By the time she was twenty eight she was married with two kids.

She never went to college.

But, occasionally some nursing classes get caught in her web of compulsive lies.

Sibling #1 is a registered nurse.

Very successful.

She used to take care of me.

She does that.

By the time I was nineteen all of this had already happened,

But, I didn't yet know that I could write.

The east coast halves, I should say, are,

well,

remarkably present,

and easy to hug,

despite all the elephants, distance

and pain.

I do wonder, kind of, what all of them might be doing on February the twenty.

Or, even, dare I say, what they were doing on February the twenty in 1982.

But, that my friends boarders on pity, or something closely akin.

Something out of season three of Party of Five.

And if you'll notice, I wear mostly pants and hooded sweat shirts.

And between the Asians and the fakes I'm practically rich.

Bitches.

Truly,

Skin and Toast

P.S. Katherine Hepburn came up on stage the other night. And I put my head down. Because, in the slide show of my spaghetti stained youth, Linda and Kate are the same person I think. And it's kind of as good as it gets.

Dear March, It's hives again

All I could think of was the scar on her leg.

The fifty odd stitches that curved around her left cap,

or was it the right?

There's another scar that goes from her breast bone to her pelvis,

it's been opened more times then I've had lovers.

Every time she had a child, even the dead one.

Every time she had a piece of her stomach removed.

Pretty much, every time.

Then, there's that scar in the middle of her forehead,

it's just led. From a pencil. Apparently she's really good at tic tac toe, and one time she got stabbed for it.

That's all I could think of.

Well, that and her cheek bones.

And her hair.

And her black iced coffee.

And her wide leg pants.

And her architecture books.

And that other little scar beside her nose.

And her married policeman.

And her favorite cemetery.

And her Salem lights 100's.

And her rare hamburgers.

And the way the snow used to fall on her black trench coat this time of year.

After school/work today I stopped at Hi-Town pizza for a slice of peperoni.

I made myself eat every drop. Even though it wasn't nearly hot enough, and I found myself choking, and the door kept blowing open, and all they had was Royal crown.

I ate the entire thing standing up,

And then the bus met me at the corner.

Dear Cherubs, Love, still in the neighborhood

~Had the day off/But, still felt like I was doing something sneaky/Five of us dressed up like pioneers and trekked across Northwester's campus looking for room 421 of the communications building/Friend boy actually was playing hooky from his desk job that is practically spitting distance from room 421 of the communications building/Seriously/Costumed ourselves in bonnets and pinafores/I had the purple dress/And the red bonnet/and the mint green journal/Did a reading of a play inspired by the homework assignment of a certain group of fourth graders or something/I think any way/twelve twenty somethings taking a class on the culture of kids/cool class/I know/I think anyway/I was the only non monkey/Helping out PHD candidate friend be a guest lecturer/Loved her expecting body/Loved her pending title/really happy to get that hot cup of coffee at eleven in the morning/yes/eleven/didn't have to be anywhere till eleven in the morning/Very happy to curve along the Sheridan road ways/Imagining what I could defend someday/What group of suits I could persuade to purchase my dissertation/Exchange my peanut shells for salaries/My boot straps for sleep tights/But, a happy kind of wonder lusting/Like, just take a right at the end of this next one/(Beat, Beat)

One beer, and most of the reading done.

Dear Math,

Crap, I can't believe I'm still taking you up the ass cheeks. However, good news; just got an e-mail from the disability guy explaining that from now on I only have to do the odd numbered homework problems. And, those answers are in the back of the book. Thank you, I'd also like a cookie. I'd also like to get credit for a one act play I write explaining the effects of drinking and smoking on an unborn child. I'd like this play to be performed at every public school in existence. I'd like my mother to be in the front row.

I'd like my mother to be in the front row. The front row. The front of the front row, please.

I type these words with purpose. I stole that line from a movie. I have to do a little more reading. I wont get much sleep. But, by getting to the end of every assigned page I will feel one step closer to victory, to adulthood, to Anne Lamont wisdom, to getting published, and sticking the landing.

I've had one beer, four hours of Too Much Light rehearsal, and three deep throated kisses, and this makes me just smart enough to keep still.

Peace,

Skin and toast

No News

Dear Wind Child,
It might be a while,
Sit tight,
I'll take you far away,
I'll take you to the feather land,
I'll make you queen of every
Thing,
And every,
One.
Sit tight.
Truly,
Skin and Toast

Bangs

Dear guitar,

lets travel.

I'm thinking New Zealand.

Some place with beaches and dish washers.

Some place with sunsets and Montessori schools.

I'll take care of everything.

Almost everything,

I'll need you to shave the back of my neck,

There's no way I can do that on my own.

Love, seagulls,

Skin and Toast

Reflections

Dear Viewers,

Pssssst; I have a secret. I, um don't think you read this. But, that was the plan. Lame plan, huh? On-line journals are funny little soda crackers. I mean, what's the point?

I think the point is writing, or learning to write for an audience could help me grow as a real life, published WRITER. I mean, if this was my moleskin it would all be about how fat and abandoned I am. And, no one wants to read that. Frankly, no one wants to read about what I did today. They want a PIECE of actual writing, a hook, a crook, a beginning, middle, and end. Right? I hate the word frankly, the bald founder uses that word all the time and it makes my eye lids boil over into my taste of Lebanon lentil.

Anyway, maybe I should pick a different theme for my blog. Something other then; "I need a place to take notes". Maybe I should screw the whole letter format. Maybe I should explain why I chose the letter format, how much letters mean to me and my past. Maybe I should just give it time.

My soul sister has the best blog of all time. Maybe I should follow her rules. She has a couple hard rules that she sticks to vehemently. They include never using pictures, and always keeping it short.

Well, gotta run. If you have any ideas, kindly drop a line. But, wait, you're not there yet. Well, that's natural. By the time you get here I'll have figured it out.

Love Always,

Skin and Toast

Jealous

Dear Yellow Haired Lady,

I pretended you were at the show last night.

On the way home someone walked past me in a long black coat.

It reminded me of the time #1 took me to Katherine Hepburn's house.

I welcome the day I don't have to pretend.

We just wanted to see it.

I guess.

We also wanted something to happen, something big, Like Meg Ryan walking out of a New York brownstone in the fall big.

She brought my headshot, I was embarrassed, it was very nice; on a golf course.

You probably went to church this morning, so did I.

OK.

Covered in snow,

Skin and Toast

Back Letter

Dear Private Park,

Well, it's time to go back. I promise not to run away like I've done so many times before. I promise to look interested. I promise to carry enough lunch money with me so as not to fall asleep like clock work every afternoon at 1:07 in the Beowulf. I promise not to cry so much in front of those nice people who are really only trying to help. I promise to take full advantage of all those various accommodations, the ones contained in that five hundred dollar packet that leaves out the horrible details that I'm pretty sure don't have anything to do with anything other then the temperature of the bath water.

You've been nothing but pecans to me thus far and I don't know why I'm so ruffled up, why I'm eating mountains of spaghetti at 5am in the season three of The "L" word. Guess I'm just tangled up in the unknown. Guess all my friends are having pit bulls out of their vagina's with their husbands who were adopted from Michigan as a single father cause gay marriage isn't legal anywhere in this God fearing universe. But, you're affiliated with the church too, and that's why you're so nice all the time. I get it! See, I'm learning.

I'll do great. I'm more then half way not hating it.

Thank you, thank you, good night, and good luck,

Skin and Toast

Pickles and Livers

Dear James,

Sometimes when twelve minutes turns into twenty minutes I start to panic, start to think you'll never show.

I've always been afraid of cars.

And the young black Moody student started crying when Leonard the hair stylist stroked his biceps.

Its a shame. Molds harden so quickly this time of year.

James, you were my first. Then we moved.

Sorry I never called,

Skin and Toast

Stream Letter

Dear deadline days,

He said three years from now all cars will have to meet-

Meet where?

I don't know because he tares these things out of magazines and scotch tapes them to friends.

He spins chewing gum into bridges-

Fragments of larger pieces cut up to symbolize something even more.

Carry me back to ol' Virginia,

Kentucky home.

That's what my friend used to say,

my dark haired friend with the guitar.

She would wail other people's lyrics through her perfect crooked teeth,

In between cigarettes and shots of Jameson,

In between boyfriends and shop hours,

Diplomas and bridal showers.

Except every once in a while she'd write her own,

And it would fit together so profoundly,

Like the folds of a new born's neck,

Disappearing like butter,

On the top of his heart,

In the depths of the starch.

Fondly,

skin and toast

Dear Utah,

I'm sorry, I don't have any information,

No locks of hair, no dental moldings, no under salted- half burned-awkward family Christmas sweaters of sepia toned puzzle pieces. Pieces of gold found at the bottom of page two hundred and twenty one that tie the whole thing together in the shape of a cross and a switch blade. Tight like the butcher paper around the pork belly eye feast.

I guess I just peeled open my mid morning napping eyes just enough to understand that I don't understand. Meridith was there, and the kitty was there, some mountains in the background.

And I don't understand. The slit in my left eye was just wide enough for my chapped fist to shimmy in through the tear duct, and make it's way down past those organs that don't seem important anymore, probing along the bedrock of my uterus like a babysitter lost in the suburban space ship of switches and turns.

I tried to pull out a piece for you.

But, all I had was sand and void.

Keeping you and your loves deep inside my thoughts today,

Skin and toast

Dear empty ether gods,

I'm freaking out.

I have to start a blog.

That's what writers do.

They have blogs, and mac books, and grants from Dave Eggers.

They have strawberry preserves, and collections of butterfly wings in vintage crayon boxes.

Don't worry, I also have a moleskin.

Not to mention sky blue sheets from Target- rolled up in a ball at the foot of my Ikea bed- framed boyfriend livin- cat ownin- heat included- day job.

I'm a writer. I have boots that go up to my pelvis, and eyes that have never been fitted for anything older then eighteen. But, actually I'm about one month and two lifetimes shy of twenty eight.

And I promised myself a long time ago that if I could just survive the winter that would be plenty.

Love always,

skin and toast