One.

Certainly has a lot of things to do everyday.
One.
Certainly has a lot of clicks.
And chips.
And ticks.
There is certainly something that could be getting done every minute of every every.
I see that.
So, I just choose the critical 75%.
And then I go to bed.
Just like the old days.
Sleep.
Like a girl.
Soundly.
As though she possibly actually just did a good job.
What do ya know.
And there's a lovely little Cuban sandwich place right behind the building.
They have free Internet and hot mustards over tangy pickles.
Doesn't get much better than that.

Oh money,

Please, hang on till December. That's it. You have one job to do.

Love,
Toast

I have to say.

Its devastating. Its killing me. Its a threshold of pain beginning to end, to drift, and veer, and scatter into the list upon list of things you look back on with wonder and chicken. I see them. I want them. I cheer them. I yearn to foster them. I will them into baby bunnies and want them to fall asleep on my soft place above my soft abdominal platform of bounty, of wide, of infinite infinite. They are my David. They are my Webb. They are my Gibbs. They are the thing that I thought that I had in the palm, but actually wanted something less. Well, much different. Much resting on my own braided leather draw string ability.

But, between you, and I, and the stack of reading by my file cabinet night stand, I will not stop the rush of my hours for fear that I will break against the rocks of them.

So, I will buy them cool shots of spicy elixir. I will look at them deeply as I pull the pulp from my lime.

Because I love them like a hawk. Assuming of course that a hawk loves with aching reckless wild majestic spans of rosie checkered ticker paper euphoria. But, I've never shared a ledge with a hawk, so I can't say for sure.

But, believe me when I tell you how proud of you I am. My heart.

Its you, and this, and us. Its the luke warm cup of chef Boyardee at 3 in the am.

Its the one litter plastic shack of club soda fizz at 3 and 25 in the morning, on Thursday.

Call me,
Yours

4pm quote. Thursday.

"A Love, a Wind

We made a long and slow love. A wind came up and the windows trembled slightly, the sugar set fragilely ajar by the wind.
   I liked Pauline's body and she said that she liked mine, too, and we couldn't think of anything to say.
   The wind suddenly stopped and Pauline said,
"What's that?"
   "It's the wind.""

~In Watermelon Sugar, by Richard Brautigan







Aunt Tif let me borrow this book. I had never heard of it. Its so cool. Its like prose poetry or something. And it just made a sharp turn for the juicy. Right here, just now, at The Grind cafe and writer's studio, at 4pm on a Thursday. Hello world, is there a line for the bathroom? Cause I might need some public alone time if you know what I mean.

Skin & Toast & changes of underpants!

Thoughts.

Just as crazy as it is to suddenly be a Neo--Futurist,

That's how crazy it is to suddenly not be a Neo--Futurist.

I know I'm always a Neo--Futurist.

Just like I'm always a cherub.

Except this isn't a summer program at all.

Its different. Its different because the audition process is so rigorous. And the start date is so riveting. And then you stay as long as you want. I've seen two years, I've seen 18 years. Its up to you. Its not like a contract is negotiated every fiscal fuck up. When you kind of want to move on, you just say something. You just put in your last six months, and that's that.  I've seen this before with other alums. Its goes like this; machine, machine, machine, machine, machine, machine, machine, get off the conveyor belt. Bye. See you at film fest. Have fun purchasing your condominium.

I don't know of any Neo--Futurists on their death beds. We haven't gotten there yet I guess. Someone who was 25 in 1987 probably still has a lot of years left. Well, I think one guy died of aids. But, nobody liked him, right? He was the dude who stole a bunch of money out of the rolling banks, right?

Good lord, what will they say about me?

But, I think my point is that, on your death bed, those years spent creating performance art above a funeral home, those are the best years of your life. Right? Has to be, right? Give me a break?

The people. The community. It hurts.

There's so many, I don't have a scarecrow, all of them most of all.

I guess someday you raise children, and that they say is amazing. And BORING! Gawd, another child hungry poverty stricken sensitive heterosexual female artist with a bad childhood bites the dust! Puts her ovaries on the period tracker and ruins everybodys good time! Meanwhile there's a homeless youth epidemic!

Oh, I know, but those wicker park onesies are so cute dangling from those graffiti stained windows next to yogurt boutiques, tattoo parlors, and taco deconstructions. How could you not want a baby with a Mohawk?






Its came up already, "my background." Its came up already in these initial meets and greets. They know. Its hard to talk about. I wanted a clean start, I think. I like things to be even Steven.

But, I'm always a Neo--Futurist.

Lucky,
Skin & Toast

8000

Guess who wrote the 8000th Too Much Light... play?
That's right, you guessed it. Yours truly.
Wow, what a moment.
Of course this kind of thing is purely chance, sure. But, isn't everything? Isn't it all luck, and chance, and one small step out of bounce? One one thousandth of a point?
Nevertheless, my toes were curling around that beam.
I screamed like a shirtless chipmunk cheeked swimmer high on marijuana cigarettes.
You know how it works;
We go around the circle and propose our plays one by one.
Then we take a moment.
Divide the number rolled slightly into a half.
Pick the half.
That's the first round of picking.
You know all this, right?
The conductor goes around the circle asking ensemble members to pick a play.
He or she picks a play, and its in. period. Circled on our respective loose leaf pages of paper.
That's the juice right there, for a play to be in the menu, it must be championed by one person. And one person only. A little something we call; art ladies and gentleman. Collective art.
Anyway:
propose.
Moment.
First round of picking.
Heavy discussion about all the other plays, the ones that weren't picked on the first round.
Then another round of picking/something we call "throwing out," depending on the number rolled.
And it just so happened, mathematically speaking, that the third play picked last Tuesday night would be the 8,000 Too Much Light Play written by a Neo-Futurist to be performed at the Neo-Futurarium within the trademarked confines of thirty plays in sixty minutes.
There you have it.
T--Balls happened to be the third person to pick on the first round of picking, and for one reason or another he picked my lil' play entitled Shiny Shine Shine.
And then I cried a little.
Because my emotions are on the surface these days.
Because I'm in a transitional time.



Go Gabby!
~Skin & Toast