Grape Nuts

I remember them. Those skinny light brown barley pebbles picking away at my not so permanent retainer. I took them with a heavy pour of two percent milk, two spoonfuls of white sugar, and a minute forty seconds in the microwave.

Something is wrong when you've been back one day and you already feel the crunch. Or maybe something is horribly right. Depends on the person you are. Or how much you weighed at birth. Or how many extra curriculars you collect.

Some people don't work. How? Just tell me. How do they not work all day. Who pays their rent? Jesus? Tinker Bell? Trust fund? Chase bank? Grandpa? It's OK. We all come from different socio economic backgrounds by some chance whisper on a wind. No judgement as always. But, I'm violently curious. Instead of going around the room and introducing our pets and a book we read over break, I want to know what you do all day. Is that crass?

Have I been emotional blogging? That is a good question to ask.

The truth is you're never ready.

No one is prepared to chew on their own teeth at five in the morning at fifty below.

So fast,
Skin and Jam

The road was littered with dead bodies

so we pulled into a super 8 in beautiful sunny Millbury, Ohio.

Only sixty three dollars a night for law, order, hot water, and white, cheesy pizza.













I wonder how long I'll listen to this electric heater mill generations of humidity. Trusting this cave of semen stained cotton weave to taco me up tight. We are shredded and limp. Nothing to do but sleep. We are trying to get home from beautiful sunny DC in our four door Honda with our hand written lists of goals and affirmations.

If you have enough money for an impromptu night in a super 8 you are officially an adult.

The front desk person had a tattoo of a tiny sailboat on her index finger.



We describe our surroundings as best we can in an effort to realize our mortality.




Wet Spots,
Skin and Pepsi Products

OK I'm Over My Anger

I am.
I swear.
I'm past it.

I've now been without you more years than I was with you. So, we're OK. It's all done. Peace. Deuces.

But, there are a few things you should know

like

1) You would love my mother in law. You guys would talk about architecture and babies.

2) You would love New Jersey. You would soak the sun and rock the chairs. You would love the woman that married my father. She's not married to him anymore so it's OK. You guys would talk about me. And shoes.

3) And there is a universe that exists in which you still live with the blankets that swaddled. Me. You saved them in cedar. And it would feel so good to look at old photos and open old pantries. And grind old coffee. And sink old cushions. And be the special one. The favorite accident. The fat pixie.

4) And I don't know who created the universe with the ball that is eternally in my court.

And I don't know where any of this comes from. I honestly don't. I hate not having a point. I hate talking about me for a minute. I hate complicated. I hate people who have to go away. I hate not knowing where exactly one is and if one should get out of the tub. And I think you're a beautiful giraffe.








Never.



Mother.
Skin and Ghosts.  

Mint Lemon Scrub

Wake up whenever
crawl to shower
take
have silent damp conversations with wall
crawl to Precise Tea Cafe
curl up in corner
with laptop and list of goals.





I got a lot done today. Like seven hundred words. I got a lot done last year. Even the stuff I didn't accomplish I still feel like I accomplished because they're on the list. And if it's on the list it's like half done. I read that in the Buddha book. Also, I end the easy days with hot baths and grainy scrubs. And one of my best friends got engaged. And one of my other best friends is moving to the coast. And one of my other best friends I never see anymore. And I keep calling my mother, but her mailbox is full but it's OK because I would just hang up anyway as soon as she answered. But, by the time I'm soaking in deep sea minerals all I can think about is my breath. And I haven't needed my emergency inhaler in like a month. And I think that has more to do with piece of mind than you think. And sometimes I hate the corners of my apartment. But, I've been breathing through this abundance pot lately. It's like a Netty pot only you don't have to stand over the sink. And I have a lot of cool stuff. And I love it all. Plus I have my life raft so everything is fun. Even when cap sized and flailing. Even when freezing and busted. Have to laugh. I mean, that face. That face.

Bears and Girls,
Skinny

From a High of Fifty

We are coming to you live from beautiful sunny Portland, Oregon.
So far we have had three Kraft beers, two cups of coffee, one black pepper sausage, and a lot of sweet dreams.
They keep their soy milk on the counter here in sunny Portland.
They also name their houses here in sunny Portland.
Things like castle
or compound
or silk


I'm sitting in a wing backed chair in front of an open coffee shop door wondering if I should read some more of my book or meet my brother at the Chinese dumpling buffet.
I bet if I picked up that banjo everything would suddenly make sense.
I was looking forward to this span of six days with my life raft and my siblings and our friends.
I look to the easy times.
They look great.
Amazing shoes tied to cute aprons held upright in adorable wooden pins.

Brunch anyone?

I'm a writer.


That's great,
Skin and Gillian Welch

For those of you keeping score:

I'm twelve hours away from finished.
I splurged on some vitamin D serum for my face and it is working miracles.
I went to central Ohio this weekend for an angel food check in.
She's sad but good.
She's angel food underneath.
(I miss my mom too.)
And when it gets like this, our second floor windows speak to us. They mew secret window languages.


And if I just keep breathing that old in and out ribbon of light I'm pretty sure I can crank these final pages out by 5pm.

But, the most important thing is looking right up at you behind soft bangs
from zebra print onesies.


Skin & Footnotes

Grand Daddy of Chicago Holiday Entertainment.

The jury is still out on this whole revision thing.
So open.
So early.
Like when the automatic doors to the hospital on Winnemac slide wide open with a gust of hot air and an eye full of pastel panels not because you are visiting a loved one but because you are walking to the Clark bus stop and are cold and thus hugging the Wall.
It's all peripheral.
It's all blind spots and ear buds.
The nice man at the front desk doesn't seem to mind.
He's busy.

Your headaches have shifted to the left side of your face.
But, this time it's not so much an ache as it is a fuzz.
You have fuzz head.
Happens to everyone you're sure.
Prefer obstructions.
You'd rather obstruct than revise.
If you're in front of an audience that is.
My revisions are private.
I'm a goat.
Great.
Keep going with that.
Put your writing in a box and stack it in the crawl space over the garage.
Next to the water damage and the twin bed.

~Gas & Light

Back From Jersey

Safe.

Went to Jersey to the house on the waves.
Fake mom purchased real dinner from real ladies who work in real shops.
They'll cater your thanksgiving real nice.
It's off season of course.
No problem honey.
Sure is breezy on the dock.
The good doctor is now one hundred and one
he has a chair and a piece of pie all day each day behind just the biggest windows you ever did see.
Rejoice rejoice fresh towels red skies.




It's advent in Chicago.




There was a baby in church today eight
days old.
They brought her up and blessed her head.




Life raft turned 32 years
last night.
Mulled wine and brilliant conversations.




I registered for a two week summer class in London with professor haven't worked with yet.





It's advent in Chicago.




Means good luck,
Skin & Blue Grass

Under Energy Saving Lights Next to Ceramic Bowls of Kale

Wake wired and early to watch a foreign film under a pink blanket from Mexico.
Clean the kitchen.
Shower.
Stare at the wall for a while.
Watch the sun take spaghetti stripes over fuzzy legs and stiff curtains.

Looks like nothing
yes
but
is actually how to successfully false start
every essay.

Meet smiley at Perfect Cup.
Sit on hands and talk circles.
Looks like nothing
sure
but
actually is step two of how to draft
every essay.

The big ones are coming up quick.

We're handling it extremely well.

Can naturally deduce that no one will die. Nobody dies from this.

Walk to the market for a slab of fresh fish and a bag of kale.

Tis the season of dark colored produce and plastic handles round freezing fingers.






Happy thirty pages double spaced everyone,
Skin and Butter

Freezing Light.

1) Apparently I'm incapable of even remembering I ever started a blog during the span of dead time that connects week five to week fifteen of a semester.

2) Evidently there's only one more semester left of course work.

3) Clearly I've started on a thesis.

4) Strangely I'll be a master of fine arts in one year and three weeks.

5) Not that strange. Swing a dead cat and everybody has an MFA.

6) But, kind of cool.

7.1) I wont have to wonder.

7.2) Anymore.

8) Terminal degree.






















~And then you get in a jeep with your friend Bird and drive through the night to a service. Angel Food lost her mother suddenly and we just had to go. We just had to. Just had to give her a big buck eye hug. It was ten thirty in the morning and the light was pouring. And the grace was amazing. And the eyes were red but the arms were out. Up and out. Every day she teaches me how to be strong and good.










Lucky Every Day,
Skin & Skin

Just Pretend You Have an Agressive Brain Tumor.

1) Seriously. Say to yourself, it's inoperable. There's nothing anyone can do. Say it. It will help you to stay in the moment. It will keep you from crying all the time. It will feel like a release. It will feel like a fuck it, I'm dying. Might as well just do this. Just do this. Just stay right here and be here. For me anyway. That's how I feel about pretend brain tumors. I'm not the sell all your possessions and live on the sand for the next six months type. I'm a sandwich on a couch in a church with a warm cat type.

2) Poetry is dead.

3) You're not going to get anywhere turning in these long prose poems to your fiction workshops. There's nothing really to critique. Class will end a half hour early and you'll cry.

4) You're just going to have to write a novel. Or something. A collection of short stories?

5) It shouldn't be so excruciating to write in a different genre. If you're studying writing you're studying all writing.

6) I got Tylenol 3 and muscle relaxers for my headaches.

7) Professor fantastic writes in lots of different kinds of forms. She does it. She's nurturing. She mentors. She's not mean. She believes in second chances. Right? Write.

8) Do not mix with alcohol.

~Skin & Toast

Am I Still Awake?

Because I'm not mad.
It all really runs together doesn't it?
Didn't mean to imply that there was ever a reason to be angry.
It gets so late.
It's so late.
Sometimes you find yourself in the middle of a thing that is changing rapidly.
If only you were on one side or the other, am I right?
No.
That's what I mean.
You are never right.
There's nothing to get.
Sheesch.
It's like talking to a wall.
Am I still awake?
I've had a headache for three days.

~Skin & Toast

I Have To Say

Professor man is the man.







Thank. God.

















I told myself I would not be angry at anything Roosevelt related.










Opposite of Angry,
Skin & Toast

Friday Notes.

The waitress went to work.
The writer went to her restaurant job.
The artist has a day job.
On Wednesdays the artist works from six thirty in the morning to three thirty in the afternoon.
At a restaurant east of Wriglyville, just west of hell in a place called Lake View of the privileged.
Usually takes the artist about forty eight hours to recover from a Wednesday.
The waitress went to work Wednesday morning.
The waitress has Clariton for breakfast and Bennedryl for supper.
On Wednesdays.
The waitress is keeping up with the reading.
The writer is tired.
Her chest is covered in cheese cloth
and
a
thin layer
of
cooling gel.
The writer is stacking her pages next to her chest.
Neat piles.
Sharp corners.
The waitress likes meeting people.
The waitress likes to describe sauce.
The writer recommends the quiona porridge always because she likes the loops of the vowels and the soft hooks of the plosives.

Day Off,
Skin & Toast

Boardwalk Notes.

Went for a visit to fake mom
and doc
they live
together
on a dock.

Life raft was with me. Together hysterical laughing mad. Mad fever sandals. Martinis. Stripes. Cameras. Points. Pickles. Tokens and shells. Easy.


It's like a post card. The candy spins ice into gold. The wind combs your hair into waves. The lanes marked in bright long sticks of chalk. The shrimp sleepy and fried. The sheets damp. Brother sturdy. Mother sturdy. Madly hysterically laughing. Stomachs gone. Taffy gone.

The summer gone.

First half of every class is lit with the final thirty minutes of that day's allotted fiery ball of light
in a school for the working class.

And the board is green. And the chalk is short and dull. And we are tired and famished.

And hysterical laughing mad at the people lagging behind us in surreys and tandems.

Know the answer,
Skin & Toast  

Fall Notes

Sometimes fall means extra drags on the inhaler at night. Also spring, and balmy early advent afternoons. Maybe it's anytime the seasons change. Anytime the night temperature is drastically different than the day temperature. The shuffling of new schedules leaves a sticky film of dander and pet saliva over every flat surface. And I can't quite breath. And the night is measured in trips to the back pack where I keep my bright red emergency inhaler. Maybe it's nerves. Back to school nerves. Sleeping for a few hours slightly propped up against the wall to avoid that dull upper right quadrant fall pain. And I wake kind of early with burning eyes to read the handouts on dialectic Marxist Delillo theory. And the wheezing subsides, and the coffee perks. And I gaze intermittently at the first degree thumb tacked to soft cork above my desk. And I feel the unlived years of my life extended far ahead of this place. But, still. Wondering. Other people, other people have fuller lungs and sharper brains. Wondering. Can they see me? Across the classroom, squeezing my own face into focus. Can they call my bluffs?



Nothing to do but write. Tap the keys while nobody's home.



~Skin & Toast

Fall Notes

We keep our printer in the kitchen
on top of a pink filing cabinet next to the litter box.

There is no tray.

The pages bounce down on
to the brick red tiles like mercury.

Smudges and cat hair on bone white drafts.

And I think, someday there wont be any marks. Someday the pages will be clean.







~Skin & Toast

Sugar Camp

1) Professor fantastic, if I remember correctly, says Just Say It. For this class, just say it. That's not a direct quote. I must be paraphrasing. I must be. Because it's not a performance class, it's a poetry class. So maybe she said, just write it.

2) It makes sense though. It makes sense in a class. In a workshop. Even out of a workshop if you want to take it home with you. It's a good rule to always follow and sometimes break. Sure, there's an appropriate established time to not really say it exactly, that's a choice. But, in a workshop, in an early draft. In a beginning. In an emerging. In a hopeful. In a letter to a young. Say it. For god sakes. If you want a response you're going to have to meet me half way.

3) Gamma died.

4) Passed. She passed. Her name is/was Joann. Actually it'(s)/((was)) spelled Joan, but pronounced Joann. And Joan is actually her middle name. It's a tradition in her family to call folks by their middle names. For example Lynn Baber's name is actually Carol Lynn Baber. (I have no idea what Joan's first name is. I call her Gamma. Most people do.)

5) Gamma is Lynn's mom. Lynn calls Gamma Mamma. Sweet mamma.

6) I met Lynn when she saved my life when I was fourteen. I met Gamma when I met Lynn. If Lynn loved me, Gamma loved me. That's the way it works. That's the way it is. That's it.

7) I love you too. I love you so much.

8) It's devastating.

9) It's an extraordinary life to celebrate.

10) The memorial was packed. Packed and happy in that devastating way. There are lots of me's. None of us would miss Gamma's memorial for anything, we were all there, folding in on each other like puppies. Gamma's home was a resting place for, for... For people who, for people who, well, ummm... For people. For anyone. Her home was for anyone. Everyone.

11) I read a poem. Lynn asked me if I would read, and I said yes. That's the way it is. When Lynn asks me for something, I say yes of course. My voice shook uncontrollably, I felt like a bird, or a sniffling "best actress." Oh my gosh, I felt my heart beating in my face. a.) Because I was trying so hard not to cry up there, please just cry in the parked car Jessica, and b.) Because I was standing in front of the most talented theatre artists in the country. Possibly the world.

12) It's July. The cherubs are here.


13) God Bless.


~Skin & Toast & Jessie  

From the Pages of the Food and Drink Diaries

From the pages of the throbbing knees. From the pages of the cramped hands. From the pages of the Indian pale ale at three in the afternoon. From the pages of the outdoor patio. From the pages of the new line cook barely over the age of twenty four you'd guess by the name of Dallas you call her Texas and do not dare tell her her Cuban sandwiches take longer than the average Cuban sandwich because she is nice and you like her and she's brand new and you figure they can wait because you are wearing a hot pink bra under your cotton weave and it is cutting you in half but it is worth it for the extra single dollar that you will keep to every five company dollar. From the pages of very nice company. From the pages of wonder if Tim still checks your blog. From the pages of clairvoyant readings in girl's town. from the pages of too much television. From the pages of permanently lost feelings in the tips of your toes numb forever in twelve dollar keds from standing too early too late. From the jalapeno pepper juice misting ghost buster green from the squeaky power of your nozzle of your horse of you field its like plowing a field between the sink and the cotton weave of your brown t-shirt. For all the times people have said there's nobody like you. For all the times you wanted an older brother. Brother. Brother. Brother. From the pages of work is good for you.

From the pages of it doesn't matter what the woman said. From the pages of it doesn't matter how she said it, doesn't matter what the co-worker said in consolation or defense.

What matters on Wednesday is that nobody in the service industry gets paid enough. Nobody. Nothing. Is. Compensated. Nothing.

And I know that I am awkward. I know that I get tongue tied and shy. I know that I shut down. I know that in some certain ways I am just not smart.

But, I am not mean. I have never been cruel to a stranger. Never.

~Skin & Toast & Heat & Rash

 

List Formation.

1) You are off theatre. You can hear yourself saying, "nope, I'm off theatre." People will smally talk in their most pleasant of talking voice inquiries, "any shows?" And you will tell them no. You are off. You are off theatre. This is not to say that you are divorced, separated, or otherwise estranged from theatre. You are just off.

2) You and life raft are teaching a class next Saturday at cherubs. It's called Neo-Futurism with Kurt and Jess.

3) The restaurant has extended their weekend hours to include supper. Small share plates and fancy cocktails. Your manager has scheduled you to work these said nights because you have a "great actor personality."

4) You should think hard about what you are doing, and to what end before you embark on a third person narrative. Yes, of course. I will. But, for now it seems to fit the list formation.

5) Where have you been? What exactly are you doing? Well, it's called summer break for a reason. Miss Neo closed with a bang. Fake mom threw roses at your feet, and you were in a good confident mood. And ready to be off. You went to Berlin, Ohio. And also to Dayton, Ohio. You saw aunt Elaine and uncle Don. Then You went to Amish country. It was so Amish even you were driving. Swerving through buggies and bonnets, up and down these rolling things called hills. Chilly Bird was turning forty, and he invited friends to come swim in his old pool and pet his old dog. It was quiet and lovely. You slept through the nights.

6) You went Chiang. Jessica Anne Chiang. You have a license and a debit card referring to you as Jessica A Chiang. You love Chiang. It is thrilling. It's a real last name. A family name. Sure, Jessica Anne is your pen name, your professional artistic name. But, now you can go to airports sans mouth full of blood.

7) You applied for some office assistant jobs. The waitressing is so hard on your knees.

8) There are lots of things to do regarding writing, and reading, and development. There is time. There are breaks, and levies, and tides.

9) Chilly Bird says if you can make a list of eight, you are well on your way.



Open Windows/Lots of ins and outs/Open palms/Soft foreheads,
Skin & Toast