It's Always Fun

June,

They usually happen around this time don't they?

It's a good time.

Sunny.

Pleasant.

School holiday.

Sleeveless.

Sure.

But, not always.

I've heard of ones happening in the winter.

Sure.

In the mountains.

There's a lot of polishing involved.

Scrub it good.

It's gotta be the nicest it's ever gonna look.

You are a tomato, and this year in your life is a giant tooth brush.

Shine that skin girl.

Twist those bristles around that shit.

Crate and Barrel.

It's all very nice.

It's a lovely weekend.

I really mean that.

I actually mean that.

I don't see any vampires.

I didn't get any assignments asking me to prove anything.

Actually, even better, this has nothing to do with me.

Oh, Jesus. I knew you were black.

I love black men.

It's a community.

A hand picked community.

All coming together for one day.

With one thing in common.

Never to be assembled again.

How cool.

A flash

In the

Constellation

Of your

Life

Together.

A tiny

Pixelated

Splash

On the

Canvas

Of your

fate.

Marked.

Flagged.

Pointed to reference.

Always.

A sunny, pleasant reminder.

And the idea is to only ever have one.

Obviously.

So, naturally it should sparkle glow.

I get it.

When I was seven I was a bridesmaid in my Father's marriage to my fake mom. It was huge. It was Cinderella on steroids. I had never felt more beautiful. Or confused. Then for reasons too complicated to blog about on a Friday, they went to Paris for a month, and something happened in that time, something that forbid me to have any contact with them for the next four years. Gone. When I was twelve I rang them up cause real mom was dying for the first time since I had known her, and the first time is real scary. Ask the grandkids. Dad and fake mom were now living in Highland Park. I had twin brothers. Sixteen months old. It is a tragedy of epic proportion that I could never, can never, will never hold them in my arms, I missed that whole thing. But, it is a miracle beyond comprehension to hold the memory of those two little bodies waddling right up to me and saying hello. And they continue to amaze me, walking, and running, and soaring into their eighteenth year.

Oh my God, my little pumpkins are huge! And that sleeping beauty on valium thing was all more then twenty years ago. And it's so over. I'm a big girl now. Very smart. Good at separating. And being happy for my dear friends, supporting them, congratulating them, wishing them, supporting them, holding, and holding, and holding them. Once you get the hang of it, it feels great, natural, much easier then dwelling and wallowing.

Nothing but love, and balls,

Skin and Toast

To Think, All Those Times I Cried About Oily Skin.

Anne,

I don't know either.

I don't even know how to defend myself in bars against conservative barista friends.

I also think you got it right with the walking, and the nature, and the wild.

Which is part of why this never makes sense.

Like something very big is very mad.

And I'll do anything, anything you say.

I like his voice.

I like it over spaghetti, Perrier, and rain on roof.

Then I feel guilty for having the courage/time/blindness to even prepare a meal.

Then I stop and listen hard to everything he is saying.

Because he is addressing me.

Because I am an American whether I like it or not.

Whether I ever understand what exactly that means.

If I could just once,

Just one instant of one day,

Stop wondering why my pants are snug around the hips,

But loose around the waist,

And long at the bottom,

Then maybe I too,

Could do,

Something.

After I finish my dinner,

And my listen,

And my kiss.

I'm learning that there are times when it is indeed appropriate to walk into the blood shot eyes of the storm to save the future of a friend, or plunge down the side of the mountain to save a dog, or dive naked into the Indiana quarries for fun, or just get in the fucking car and drive into traffic, three damn miles to the neighborhood church, or God forbid; Dominick's. You know, whatever might be scary, or accomplished only after unyielding amounts of faith, abandon, and love.

I'm learning that not everything is about or because of my mother.

I'm learning that the world is sometimes just as sad as I am without ever knowing my mother.

And that that would make me, at times, stronger then the world, and in a position to help.

I'm learning that sometimes it is right and good to do nothing.

To bask in the absence of this plane, and float effortlessly onto the next.

But, even that takes effort.

So, grow up.

Sometimes they and it are blood sucking vampires to stay away from.

And sometimes it's time to stop sleeping in coffins and trust your own ability.

I love you Anne Lamott.

Most of what I write is learned from you,

And thanks to you,

Skin and Toast

Missed Calls

Denver,

It's true about the sadness in the world.

It's true about the nothing we can do.

It's true about the old,

And the friend,

And the fame,

And the special,

Who have moved,

And hiked,

And stretched,

And crashed,

And raised,

Into beautiful,

Beautiful,

Beautiful.

It's amazing how plans can change,

Dramatically,

But,

People, not so much,

Though they do try,

And try,

And fail,

And don't,

But, sometimes,

Do.

Dramatically.

Euphorically.

Graciously.

Sometimes,

Even,

For the good.

And about the Guy,

The candy,

The diamond,

The cancer,

The show I shared,

I served,

I swept and mopped,

For, and,

With,

You.

I am now one of many, many,

Who have heard and stumbled,

Too.

And on

Your on line notes.

Who is so very, very,

Very.

Like a letter,

Stamped,

And paid,

You,

Just,

Never,

Never,

Never.

Know,

Skin And Toast

From the inside out

Dear Matchbook,

I like the way you follow me everywhere I go.

I like that.

I like the way you sleep, and snore, and dream, and wake yourself up all inside the twenty minutes it takes me to do the dishes.

I like the way you sometimes lick my toes for no reason and it kind of tickles.

I like the little snip out of your right eye, makes you look tuff.

I like the way you can't stop crying every time the shower's running, you sit on the toilette and cry, and cry, in agony until I'm done with my legs. I can only assume that something horrible happened in some bathroom somewhere before we adopted you.

I like the way you drink ice cold water out of ceramic coffee mugs sometimes as a treat.

I like the way you kind of choke when I pick you up, and squirm until I release you, and then run right back for more.

I don't like war.

As a concept.

Ugly Protective Blisters,

Skin and Toast