Oh Christ.

I think, from what I can piece together from the scriptures, and the epiphany advent baptisms, and the homily eucalyptus oils--is--that the day is really awesome. Actual awesome incarnate. But, the juice really starts to flow once you get home--after the Shepards retrace their steps if you will. That's when you start working. That's the change you wish.

Like when you get a book deal, lets suppose, a book deal, with a handsome advance. Wouldn't that be awesome?

Well, then you have to write it. And it should be longer than a page. So, that's a challenge.

Maybe that's a bad example. Maybe that's not it at all. maybe that's all receiving and not a whole lot of giving.

Or maybe it's the greatest of gifts.

Or maybe you really love your friends. And maybe you feel the need to keep them so close, so very close, so close and squeezy you're almost afraid you'll kill em. Just strangle em. Like a whittle teeny tiny bunny.

And it's always easier to see them this time of year, when there's a big ol' spotlight beaming down on their mangy lil' roofs.

And then the routine starts up again, and the salt goes right to the ankles, and you try on jeans at the Gap all by yourself. And you really really want to see your friends looking Rosy and gifty right now. Cause its just so fun. Cause it goes by so fast. Cause we don't have a lot of time.

So, that means you have to call them.

Ya big loon.

They all live in like a three block radius from your lil' slanty lil' pile of hay and life.

Lean too,
Skin & Toast

AWALL

Hello to you.
I'm writing to you from under a pile of blankets and trash.
I'm OK.
I did it.
I got pneumonia.
But I did it.
I got all A's for the first time since first grade.
I got a fresh set of classes.
They start next week.
Not till Friday.
I'm under a pile of trash and blankets.
They
Feel
The
Classes
I
Presume
From
The titles
Much
More
Pleasing
To
The
Subject
Of
The
Doing.
Less Trash.
Less Itch.










And we're now full speed ahead on Analog; the Kurt Chiang tour de force. So, watch for that. It's crunch time.



Warm Showers,
Skin & Toast

4th Wave.

Sometimes I think I put a little too much pressure on myself.
Pressure to break the cycle.
Pressure to be nothing like my mother.
Nothing like my grandmother.

See.

They're not role models.
Not heroes.
Not examples.
They didn't even try.

My sisters and nieces and nephews certainly have a lot to be proud of,
But, that's different, that gets competitive.
And if I turn out a loser like our mother, it kind of brings the whole team down.
It's all on me.
It's my turn.

Not really. I'm in my own little Chicago cocoon. I don't have to report back.

But, I kind of want to. Eventually. I want to stumble in with the rotting Buffalo carcass draped over my bare back. I want to show them my kill. I want my kill to be the deadest, most biggest, bestest kill ever.

Isn't that ridiculous?

Doesn't this all sound just a touch angry?

Just tell me. I can take it. I've been on edge. My rage has been on my edges, my sweetness has been a tad folded over if you know what I mean. Well, grandma was sweet. So sweet she wasn't anything other than sweet. And still. And good. I don't even know what she loved, what she obsessed over, what stirred her up? What woke her up? What did she read besides the bible? What did she listen to except her husband on the keyboard? Who is/was she? Anything? Any failures? Tell me? Too late. She's gone. Left nothing. A recipe for potato salad and some antique dolls.

It was a different time. There's no need to be nasty. If she was born today, in this city, with these people.

Worlds.

Life raft says I should just focus on one thing. My problem is I let too many things fester in on me at once. I have an uncanny ability to go from-- wow that cable bill sure does goes up-- to wow my family is embarrassed of my life, and I'm a terrible artist chasing a rabbit down a jobless, childless, lifeless hole.

He says first of all, this is your family. This four. Life Raft, Toasty, Chi--Chi, and Meow-Meow. And do you remember when your mother picked your old kitty up by the tail and threw him out the window? Yes. Of course. And would you ever even think of doing anything like that? Nope. Never. See? That's one thing you're doing different. That's enough for tonight. I promise you are not your mother.

I should marry him.

You know, I've had a hard time admitting to the world how difficult it is adjusting to post Neo--Futurist life. And you'd think I'd feel fortunate and lucky to have my life raft still carrying the torch. And I do, cerebrally. But, it also stings. Digs. Triggers my jealous streak. Where does that come from? Only child syndrome? Niece with a large rack syndrome? Past life regression? I've always had an ugly jealous rage. (My niece is seven months older than me, we sort of grew up "together.")

My last run, my last show, was amazing. But, the last seven months were not. We're coming up on the one year anniversary of the incident. And I can feel it living in me. I've been meaning to tell you about it. Rationally. Objectively. Detailed. Wise. Reflective. To bed. Perspective.

But, you know those work related incidents between you and the bad guy? Those situations where of course this is happening, this guy is like this, he's in a position of power, he always treats me like this, like I am a child? I can brush this off. I can go home and kiss my family. And then eleven months later you're still talking to him in the shower. Screaming and crying into the foggy windows all the things you should have said.

I really need to let it go.

But, the incident dominoed a whole series of events that changed the company forever. For good, yes. But, for exhausted deep still healing wounds.

And then there's the blog. The little girl. That family. That room full of those people. Sadly that's the root. They are the root. Those humans. That's a shame. I would so be over that stupid blog had the incident not occurred.

But, you do understand that those crazy things I say are not literal. They're very long extended twisted metaphors that I am proud of. And I know what I'm doing. And













I have to let it go.


















But, you know there's a lot to work with there. It's a story. I'm going to try to tell it in a calm sort of both sides Anne Lamott way. As soon as I'm up for it.





I have a few theory papers to write this week.


















You know, speaking of blogs. A talented woman I used to work with just started a blog. You should check it out. She recently experienced a series of life turned up side down kinds of things, and so she's writing about it with humor, sass, and heart. She's a single mom in Evanston, two kids. But, even if you're a newlywed in Ravenswood with cats, you can still relate and enjoy. Cause its a strong woman writing.

http://www.chicagonow.com/mama-bunny-pip







~Skin&Toast&Bacon&Blankets&Pedicures&Merlot

Lyla Black.

So, I guess I'll have to run into that little cunt rag.
Lyla Black.
The brat with the blog.
That spoiled d--bag who "reviews" Chicago theatre at the advanced age of 8.
Look her up, she's out there. And I hate her.
Actually I love her.
Because she's a child.
I hate her parents.
Actually you can't look her up.
I'm using a fake name.

But, she seems to review these prime time Neo--Futurist shows.
And I'm in two of them this season.
So, we'll probably cross paths.

If I was the creator of these shows I'd write a letter to the parents.
I'd say:

Please don't review this show on your blog.
I think what you're doing to your child is manipulative and abusive.
Please don't bring your daughter to see this show.
Please don't see this show.
Personally I don't want you in the building.
I hope you burn in hell you sick bastards.

But, I'm not the creator of these shows. So, I can't write that letter. And, I should be doing other things. Like co--writing these shows for example.

So, I'll just have to be a mature adult about this.

But, I'm still very angry for the record. I'm not letting this go. This child is not cute. She is not smart. She is not special. She's a girl. A normal girl. A normal ass girl who is worshiped by her mediocre local Chicago actor parents.

Don't get me started.

I hate these people. When I eventually run into these snakes, I will not be shy. I'll tell them to their face how much I hate them.

And it will take a considerable amount of restraint on my part to resist tying them to chairs and forcing them to watch me rape their daughter in the ass with a rusty pipe.

War,
Skin & Toast

It's kind of like,

Like a wild buffalo is staring you right between the eyes,
Stamping his foot,
Drooling on your shoes.
Licking his lips.
Asking you in snorts and grunts what you could possibly be made of.
That's not pleasant.
I'd rather be watching u--porn and drinking scotch than hanging out with wild animals.
But, it makes for a good story later.
The buffalo.
The buffalo is a conversation starter.
And you get the feeling there's a prize at the end.
Some kind of cookie once you get back to camp.
I don't mean to complain.
That's not it at all.
But sometimes complaining is how we learn.
Right?
Everyone says the first buffalo is the hardest.
The first buffalo breaks you in,
Once you're broken you can start to get positive feedback.
I respond to that.
I like a nurturing approach.
Just putting that out there for all the roaming beasts to sniff out.

I'll sleep under the sky with you,
In the dirt and the snakes,
But, I'm going to need a blanket.
~Skin & Toast

PS: Whatever you do, don't run.

Don't be alaramed.

Sorry if I left you hanging,
I'm getting all my work done,
And I'm not pregnant,
Not to worry.
I don't know exactly what I'm writing, but I am writing, Its supposed to be fiction, so I just change the names, or at least my name.
It is all a challenge, its a challenge to write things longer than one page, its a challenge to write things that are meant to be read, not heard, not driven between bleeding center down spots.
But, I think I'm doing a pretty good job.
I think anything that meets a deadline is a job well done.
And then I have days where anything other than being buried alive is a job well done.
And that's just the workshop, then there's theory, and magazine production, and the assistant ship.
So, its a full plate.
But, the alternative is slinging half cooked eggs to white people's flat strollers, and I will not stand for that.
This is nothing new,
This is the same old eye on the prize.
Its getting cold in this place.
I've already had two packages of alka seltzer plus.
The sensitive place behind my eye teeth, in the ridges of my soft palette, tell me its going to be a long winter.
I'll take it.
I'll take it all.
I'll take the hair pulling, and the chapped lips, and the 1000 pages a night, and the attached files, and the  pipes bursting, and the wet socks, I'll take it.
And then someday we'll walk a cobblestone street in the south of France for no reason at all, and we wont be impressed by the architecture, and we wont pay any never mind to the chocolate, or the art.
We'll just walk back to our hotel, and they'll be expecting us, and open the door for us, and we'll laugh all the way up the stairs, and we'll strip down to our socks, and twist our limbs around the silk and flannel bedding, and listen to people arguing outside our window, and fall asleep warm in each other's arms, cozy with age, and fine wine.
Sharp,
Skin & Toast

Guys.

Like, if I can pull this thing off it'll be a miracle.
Want some solid bricks of gold?
Talk to me in 2014.
Want some laugh lines and white hair?
Already covered.
First 100 days,
Skin & Toast