Friday, May 25, 2012

The table cloth is burning

And there's cat litter in the bed
And and a hole in the floor
Not to mention that yellow film that coats the back door
The food in paper bags
The bugs in the wheat
Diploma tacked up between the cork and the coupons
Looking through a rice paper screen
My posessions on my lap
And my love up on the roof

Adjust the crown and sing with heart

~Skin & Toast

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

You & Me.

As you know,
Life raft has a work space/side project called Dead Squirrel.
Life raft also has a hefty prime project called Analog.

~An exploration of fate, decay, and process, narrated by the motley crew of lost boys from William Golding's classic young adult fiction adventure; Lord of the Flies.

I'm paraphrasing/licensing.

My point is, we created a tumblr in effort to compile mass quantities of images/inspirations.

For your viewing pleasure,
Skin & Toast

Saturday, May 12, 2012

I Pulled Into Nazareth

Linda: Born somewhere South of Ohio, North of Nigeria, not sure where. Maternal grandparents; pastors and pedophiles. Father; not sure, something where you have to move around a lot, like the military, but not the military, sketch artist, huge baseball fan. Younger brother, Bill, now lives in Indiana with a woman, has a daughter, grandchildren, very nice, casual, wore blue jeans to his mother's funeral. Their mother, Mary Eloise, worked in the home from what I can gather. Died recently, about five years ago, had about a million strokes, coughed, and died. She was a simple sweet woman who put mayonnaise on her potato salads. The speaker of this story has about six memories of her. One of her crying. One of her writing my name in a bible. The rest mostly silent. White sugar over corn cereals, nicknames, pleated skirts over crossed knees. Backyards falling into warm summer lakes, faint noises. Bags of peppermints on the floor. The speaker of this story never met her grandfather, her mother's father, the first husband of Mary Eloise. He died suddenly of a heart attack while the speaker of this story was in utero, and Linda was on bed rest, supposedly, could not make it to the funeral. Linda. Married her high school sweet heart, her best friend's brother, Earl, or Spark as he is affectionately nick named, I think for his love of trains. Linda and Earl had three daughters. Linda tried to kill herself. Linda got "help." Linda got a part time "job" at a hospital, met a very young speaker of this story's eventual father, had an affair, left her family, moved to New York, had a still born son, had a daughter; Jessica. Another affair. Divorced. Another marriage. Divorced. Found an apartment and a man named Tom. Lived high and strong till the depression demons won. Used up all eight of her lives, dipped down to 70 pounds. Left. Has had her body sliced open more times than the speaker of this story can count. Now lives alone with her medication in the Back Bay of Boston, eats meals on wheels, watches TV, lives in close proximity to her oldest daughter, grand daughter, and two great grand daughters. The speaker of this story has called Linda three times in the past year, after a glass or two of wine, in a public restroom, leaning against the outside of her wedding venue, and leaning against the outside of a busy restaurant on Clark & Berwyn. Linda has a cat named Morgan, active in the church. Relatively good standing with her Boston relatives, although, they prefer to refer to her as Linda, grandmother is a title earned in my family. It is safe to say that Linda is, and always was, sick. It is safe to say it's not her fault. It it safe to say she sucks at mothering. It is safe to say I miss her every day.
The musicality of Ani Difranco
And the iconography of Katharine Hepburn

Happy mothers day to who ever it was that said "sure" to your "can I sleep here tonight?"

"I'm scared."

Put The Load Right On Me,
Skin & Toast

Thursday, May 10, 2012


Nothing like a beach house full of relatives to put the islands in your wrist watch.
Kurt's sister graduated college with flying honors, so everyone came out, I'm talking like 30 highly educated, white linen pressing red wine connoisseurs draped over the rails of a second floor balcony. It was awesome. I met some characters and got some hugs.

The best part of a graduation ceremony is right after the pomp and circumstance recession, after they've finally called all the names, and saluted all the flags, and rocked all the votes, and the graduates march away-somewhere-you can't quite see where-cause you can't see anything-and then you're left alone with your aunts and your hung over cousins-alone and dehydrated-wondering where your little graduate could possibly be-so you do what you've always done-you find her-you comb the lawn for her-you keep and you herd her.

That's what I'm talking about. That part where everyone is sweaty, and quietly controlling their chaos in heels and pastel neck ties. The exodus of family after family sinking into that Kentucky air lifted turf, nursing the utter confusion. And then the gentle bursts of relief and embrace when they find each other, when they kiss, and pose for the camera, and unzip their nylon, eel black, highly flammable robes.

It's this sparkly combination of saying goodbye forever to one family, while simultaneously coordinating the early dinner at Outback with the other family, the family you've known all your life, forever, the people who find you on the lawn.

Like a wedding, or a christening, or a funeral, huge groups of people congregating with purpose, in common support, a pattern of people never to be formed again. A dorsal fin of shiny faces.

Your favorite cat lady Jesus freak sister in law!

Thursday, May 3, 2012

Egg Head Chronicals Installment the First

First off,
You have to understand that when I say egg head, I mean egg head.
He is an egg in red tennis shoes.
And the egg has been hollowed out, his first wife blew the yoke down the drain,
And replaced said yoke with baby vomit.
The shell of an egg containing baby vomit in red shoes.
That is the person we're dealing with.
And when I say first wife, I mean mother.
Because he was a nudist in the eighties,
So, they are one in the same of course.

Just wanted to paint that picture before we get too far into this.

Volley Ball Time,
Skin & Toast

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

It's funny.

Kind a funny how sometimes all you need for music is the Damen bus stopping and starting every twenty five minutes outside your open window. I imagine myself in leggings, working for a newspaper, long, straight black hair, red plastic glasses that take up half my face. I'm 24. I used to take ballet. I grew up in Virginia. I have a baby grey hound. My mother invented the Thesaurus. I've been to Rome. I didn't like it.

(Music, bagpipes)

My real mother will be 70 this August. I've lost track of whether or not the east coast hates her. It's easy for me to forget that they've fostered some sort of routine with her the past 14 years. They have that luxury of time. I'm sixteen when it comes to my mother, and probably the rest of the east coast. I seem to have separated three major events from around that time, and crowned them all as the last time I saw her. Even though I know I've seen her at least a dozen times since. Even shared a bed with her, pretended to be asleep while she kissed my hand--drama queen. One; sixteenth birthday on Longwood Drive, fried chicken and ice cream cake. Two; checking her into the nursing home, stopping for chicken nuggets. Three; visiting her with Debby, brought a cranberry muffin from Java. Debby cried. She was clearly much better, and that ironically, as usual, made a huge mess of things.

But, the Damen bus runs northbound, or southbound, nothing in between. So, we don't really have to worry about any of that right now. And as much as I'd like to rescue a grey hound, I would never risk upsetting matchbox's bladder.

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Would You Rather

Stand up for something you believe in, or repeat the 4th grade?
Eat a delicious piece of peperoni pizza, or repeat the Holocaust?
Hang a poster on the wall, or grow a breast between your but cheeks?
Be Mormon, or Amish?
Change the taste of cum to your favorite Ben & Jerry's ice cream flavor, or be immune to hangovers?
Be forced into the nunnery, or be vegan?
Only know how to play the guitar, or cry tears of poo every time you're in public?
Find a pubic hair in your burrito, or find out you were adopted?

~This is like the best game. Road trip!


Makes me feel better.
And usually has little candies
In the front pocket of his back pack.