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

Opps

Dear Open Window,

Think I accidentally used my real name in that last post.

Ya got me.

In other news, I went to that thing last night with the bar, and the microphone, and the score cards.

Pretty solid I gotta say.

Nothing stood out as horrible, plasma penetrating the vagina, or cotton ball to the teeth.

Perhaps its time to embrace said storytelling community.

Start small.

Don't even start, just do, and see if any limbs fall off.

Stop playing the virtual oral stimulation game with the idea of Ira Glass.

That's counter productive on so many levels.

Skin/Toast/Adventures in the Narrative

That Went Well

Tap Water,

I always used to expect college campus' to be sad during the summer months.

Like a Metra station on the weekend.

Or the Evergreen Plaza on a Thursday night. Linda had her therapy sessions in the back of the Evergreen Plaza. Don't worry, it was in a real office. But, I know what you're thinking. You read The Lovely Bones, you know what goes on inside the underbelly of a typical fiction mall. No, I tend to write mostly from the actual, relying on metaphor, or food to clot any wounds that might still be exposed. Thusly ignoring the voice that barks "why are you laughing"?!--At my squeaky peripheral vision. Bruce was his name. The therapist, he called himself Bruce. And come to think of it, if he wasn't morbidly obese and walked with a cane, I'm sure she would have fucked him. She fucked everyone. EVERYONE. Except for the ones who fucked her, of course. You had to walk through the food court to get to him. If we got there early enough we could get some pizza from Sbarro. Pepperoni and a diet coke please. What do you say? Thank you? She was never hungry, just sipped on the soda that I never finished. I usually ate half of my jumbo slice. Because the one time I finished it she said "Wow, hungry girl tonight", and shot me a glare that made it clear that I should never ever finish anything ever again.

Apparently not even school. The first time she was on Hospice, (yes, she's been on Hospice more times then I've been prescribed Zoloft, which is many) sprawled out on the couch like Cleopatra, Bruce made a house call. I helped him up the stairs by process of elimination, Linda was half my weight, and Tom was making the monthly pilgrimage to the Indiana border for cheap cigarettes. Anyway, once big Bruce was settled in to the vintage upholstery, we all talked, or something. About the funeral. So weird. I was sitting on the radiator not saying much. Wishing Tom would hurry up. He was thin too, but the only one still strong enough to hug me. Which was something I liked. What ever happened to him? It took me about five years to trust him hard enough to hug back, trust that the hug wouldn't go below the belt. And then he was gone. C'mon Tom, I don't look anything like Linda, I wont remind you of her at all, promise. Anyway, I always stayed in the waiting room during their Plaza sessions, chatting about Disney movies and Highlights magazines with the secretaries, so this public living room session was mildly interesting I guess. Where's Tom?

And Linda was dying some time in the next three months, and Bruce was going to read something at the memorial, and I had to make a list of people to call, inform, that Linda had passed away in her sleep surrounded by people who love her, and damn it, WHERE IS TOM!?

And I remember this whole time table was hard to grasp. Confusing to say the least. Three months? Really? Is there some kind of advent calendar to help me track this kind of thing. I'm a visual learner.

And I remember Bruce said, trying to be nice I'm sure, "Well, there are certain things we know for sure, you'll never see Jessica get married for example, or graduate college, or even learn to drive".

Hmm. For someone who seems to be paying more attention to how long they can bare their perch a top the 1920's radiator before the dry heat penetrates there kids size 13 denim apparel, I think I really took those words to heart.

And what hurt the most I think, is the way Linda answered, with a "no, no, no, no, no, definitely not, ha, ha ha". Like it wasn't even sad. After all that pizza I threw away for you? Nothing? In return?

Step in any time Bruce.

Tom!? No, Chinese food. I'm not hungry anymore.

Where was I going with that? Oh, the campus! North Park is in a major metropolitan area! Not lonely at all during the summer months.

Progress. And life. And air conditioners.

Truly,

Skin/Toast/And Tired Of Waiting

Smoked Corn

Fest,

Tomorrow's the first day of summer math.

T--Bird was like,

Why didn't you call me?

And I was like,

They live in Pennsylvania.

They've lived there their entire lives.

You're from the north country T--Bird.

No child is behind you today.

Unless you count the bloody black baby in the forest.

Your welcome to give me some pointers,

Except,

Swaddling clothes are hard to find nowadays.

Just kidding.

Maybe I could have tried harder.

No.

I really couldn't have tried any harder then the beer can collecting brother in law.

One brother in law remains.

Now.

I think he recycles his cans.

I don't know.

Maybe we can all meet at the Golden Apple every Sunday morning after church and scream at each other till it makes sense.

That's how I imagine a math break through.

Loud.

Like Meg Ryan with a dirty face loud.

Anyway,

I promised myself I'd go into this with an open mind.

The last time I had my mind open was the time I pretended to inhale the back alley behind the Academy.

Joe was there.

He had lost weight recently.

Wisdom teeth.

He went to Columbia.

All the three art's club ladies told me to go to Columbia.

I should have listened.

Their minds were open.

Girl.

Grand Canyons.

Nnnnnnnn's....

Guns.

Ditches.

Poetry contests.

You gotta make your own way.

Make it out of maid of honor dress scraps and duct tape.

Too hot to sleep.

Too bored to dig out the air conditioners.

Conditioned and ironed into square shaped hexagons and third powered exhaustion's.

Skin,

Toast,

Balls