Dialogue from the first university and I've still never been to San Francisco

Me: It's cold in the writing room, by the way.

Her: Well, then how do you explain the flowers?

Him: I don't explain anything, I work.

Me: Well, I take a lot of breaks.

Her: Normal people go to libraries.

Him: Normal people die, its all the same.

Me: Stop yelling.

Her: I imagined you'd be brave.

Me: She took me to a field one night after a long assignment was due. I pretended I had never been there. She told me it was more beautiful when on drugs and with men. I blew my nose and kept walking.

Him: Its funny the memories you make in your twenties. I was on a train most of the time. I had a car, but it was more trouble than it was worth. I was hospitalized and that scared me.

She: I started and stopped writing music. I got new clothes and met someone.

Us: I wonder what we're supposed to do now, besides get tattoos and fix our minds. Thank God we still all love each other, on the second floor of our neighbor's homes.

Prefaced With The Usual Not Angry Anymore

I still play that game I made up when I was a little girl. Very little. Like, in the crib little with the snow white wall paper glaring back at me little.

It’s a going to sleep game that started happening to me when I couldn't turn my brain off.

See, what I do is I get nice and wedged over on my side, then I curl my right hand over my left shoulder blade, and tilt my head down to my chest like a chicken. Then I wait for the popping sounds to happen in the middle of my neck. It kind of feels like all the extra oxygen bags that usually hang off the sides of my face are getting sucked down to my spine. Like cough medicine before a spelling test. Its good and bad.

Then I get real heavy and I start to see things. I see dark things like the close up of one of those Jackson drippy pictures, and the insides of dumpsters, and the holes in the ground. And then I also see very white things, like eggs, but not an egg on a counter, the surface of an egg stretched tight to the edges of my brain so nothing else gets in. Also ice. And the little rainbows of thread that you can see on the tops of buttons. But, I’m not choosing these pictures, no, they pop in my brain and hemorrhage, like fire works. The pictures find me, and they’re always either black or white. And I barely have to use any of my thinking, so I go to sleep.

I suppose people like us, us brain hemorrhaging people, us people who think we might be smart, buried in the sand smart, but we can’t find the clues to prove it to other people people-we’re sort of comfortable being kicked out of things, having no where to go exactly. We’re used to it. And sometimes we even look for it.

Personally I feel like a large man in the middle of a river. I love my wife, and I love my truck, and I love the edges of my kitchen table. And I’m so proud of myself, and I could tell her anything, and I do. And I always come home. But, sometimes I just have to take my tackle box down to the middle of the river and pull the mini blinds over my eye balls and think to the world I’m on vacation, but I’m not.

I stand in the middle of the river as a large man casting white strings out over the black water. And I put the girl of myself on a raft so that she can think of nothing. Nobody.

I hated that plaque on the bathroom wall. I was very familiar with that plaque on the bathroom wall on account of all the time I spent in the bathroom, primping and pruning and hating being a girl. Hating blow drying my hair and smearing concealer over my cheeks. Hours and hours. Sitting on the edge of the tub making myself look not bad. Tucking my shirt into the elastics of my underpants. Talking to myself out loud with half of my voice and standing very close to the radiator. It was a ceramic plaque from a board walk in Jersey.

The Smith Family: Jacob Gertrude Ajax Seth. Equipped with adorable water colored cartoon versions of themselves in their pajamas under their covers.

I didn’t understand why it had to hang in the bathroom that was attached to the guest room that was my room, that played my fire works at night.

My last name was Smith! His name is still on my birth certificate. The boys are my blood. But, I didn’t make the plaque. And they wondered why I told the teachers to call me something else.

One Sunday night I came home to my mom and step dad’s apartment, and there was a kitty sleeping on my bed. They had rescued him from the tree outside my window. he was a little baby, and he got scared of the rain. They gave him a bath and put a red ribbon around his neck. I was so happy. But, also sad, because I realized that my mom and step dad did things on the weekends, like save animals. I had been hoping they just laid on the floor all weekend with blankets over their heads. It is always sad to miss out. My conclusion was to love my kitty more than anything, and to call him buddy, no last name. he was all white with a black tail and black eye patch.

Now of course I loved all of the people while I was awake and eating. I still love them. But, there were so many groups of them back then, and I hadn’t yet made my raft, I didn’t quite know how to float on my back in the middle of everything. I got sad when they pulled in the extra chair from the other room. It was closer to the ground and it made me sneeze.

I get very tired when I remember all of this. The images start to fire work my brain, and I curl my body under on account of it doesn’t matter anymore. I like how cool the water is under the sky. I wouldn’t change anything because its none of my business. Those white lines that cast over the river they just land, its OK really. And my outcast roots make me a little sparkly in certain situations. Like when I wear a mini skirt to prom, or combat boots to my own wedding.

And you just sort of relax with your fireworks and your chicken-- and you thank the large man for the way that you are. And you turn everything off. And you gurgle bubbles down the side of your neck. And a million years go by. And then the one large man becomes many large men. Many many faces helping, all changing the direction of the water so that you never have to drift too far before you wash up safe.

And

Go home and kiss your wife.

Good night.

Festus.

I have a distinct memory of sitting in a circle of lawn chairs in the middle of Iowa, on a day so humid you think something’s going to happen. I must have been about nine years old. I must have been wearing pants. On my right I see the forearm of an elderly man in a white button down shirt, he’s lifting a female infant above his head and talking to her in the third person, telling her she’s perfect, and innocent. I remember remembering that he was the one my mother called a racist bastard. I remember thinking at least he’s nice to that baby. Six years later, when I kissed the black boy on the church steps, I remembered the racist man again, and I wondered what color my baby would be someday, and I wondered if any baby of mine could ever make it through Iowa. On my left I see my mother; smoking, ignoring the racist bastard, and the innocent baby. Directly in front of me I see a pair of bare feet, and the pair of bare feet is talking, agreeing with the other voices that Jessica should take a ride on Festus, Jessica is the perfect size for Festus. Then I remember complete darkness; root canal darkness. Then I’m standing on an upside down bucket while the bare foot voice is whistling through her fingers and shouting things like baby, and sweetie, and honey pie, and sugar snap pea, and I’m thinking why don’t they call Festus; Festus. Festus is a mule. A grey mule just my size. He was dying twenty years ago, so I can only imagine he must surely now be dead and gone, burned and scattered over the bigoted daffodils and melting juleps. I rode that dying mule into the ground, I was wearing pants and plastic sandals. He was naked accept for something around his neck, a red string, or a pink shoe lace. The bare foot voice abandoned the left side of Festus and returned to her lawn chair. I was alone with my grey mule, and my country, and the soft places of my body; I was as independent as a white turtle. I liked the weeds of Iowa, I liked that Festus never took me out of ear shot, the babies were louder than the crickets all night. He was like a dog, or a father. Except much different, because his spine was cutting me in half and I liked it. When he finally got tired he just sat down, and waited for me to slide down his spine like frosting out of a plastic bag, he disappeared into the weeds, I taught myself how to walk again. The voices laughed. I felt something in my cotton underpants. Something binding, like chewing gum, or rubber cement. I excused myself to the out house. And because my mother had boyfriends instead of husbands, I knew all about hymens and exactly what was going on. No big deal. I cleaned my thighs with the back of my left hand. I smiled. I returned to the circle and helped myself to a hot dog. I am wild, and slow, a Mona Lisa in a lawn chair. Rest in peace grey mule.

~Skin&Toast

Oh Boy There,

I took a break.

See, I've been working on one of those blasted applications again,

Trying to air brush my portfolio just right,

Not really feeling like writing anything new,

Feeling emotional looking at everything I've ever written,

And supposing; this has got to be good enough for whoever you are.

I'm not giving up.

We don't do that in this house.

I got two new tunes,

Some chick called Birdy,

She's from another country and she has this single called Skinny Love.

And these dudes from another other country called Of Monsters and Men.

Did I ever tell you I soak up this kind of thing, I mean soak,

Like, wrinkled fingers, and light heads.

And, I started another, an additional part time job.

Another adventure in barista precious grounds.

I'm a barista at Heritage Bikes.

Go there.

Its on Lincoln and Southport.

Right by the Golden Apple and the huge church.

Its brand new.

A tune up and a cup of Stumptown is only ten dollars, and you can hang out all day with me, I'm nice.

And everyone there is really nice.

A young couple from New York, it's their idea, and launch, they own the joint, and they're so hip, and creative, and approachable, and smart, and stylish, and busting with ideas.

They have a sister company in New York called Bowery Bikes.

But, now they have a cafe bike shop right here on Southport, and Lincoln, and me.

Its the first bike cafe in Chicago.

Dudes.

The bikes look so phat.

They're for the casual rider.

Dudes.

Have you heard of tweed?

Look it up.

I am, like totally getting a bike now.

I was afraid up until now.

Not afraid of riding,

Afraid of walking into a snobby bike cult shop nothing, just know everything, which I don't.

OK.

And Stumptown is way hot.

They flew out to teach us.

I can pour a heart now.

Yeah, check it out.

This week is soft opening.

Grad opening is this Saturday, 6pm--11pm.

Then we'll be open everyday 7-7.

There's long picnic like tables, and a bunch of hanging Edison bulbs.

Mr. Best Friend was there all day yesterday doing work on this lap top.

And he loved it.

And he doesn't love just anything.

Oh My God!

Like, his show like totally got in!!!!!!!!

Ah!

Prime Time, 2013, Chiang, be there!

We have a year,

Ah!

Lets get to work!

I'm in it too, so is T--Rex,

Hans Lullaby is in it too, first time on stage, ah!

And some other people that Mr. Best Friend doesn't know yet.

Its about fate, and Lord of the Flies, and a bunch of other stuff.

It's going to kill.

Ah!

Then the president of Monkeys asked Mr. best Friend to direct a school show.

And he sure is going to direct it.

And as far as I'm concerned that's a big deal.

And then his painting that he painted with our good friend sticky,

They submitted it to a gallery in Seattle,

And it got in!

So, their work is going to be hanging in a real gallery.

Ah!

How bout that?!

Their art space is launching by the way, they're having a soft opening next week, it's called Dead Squirrel; A Neo-Futurist Art Project.

Whatdoya think ah that!

I'm the managing director, I'm making the pamphlets.

Doing things.

I performed with Paper Girl two nights ago at the Hideout, it killed. It was for this thing called GRAZE University. We lectured on the history of the horse. It was so fun. It was a pot luck, I had the best cold curry noodles of my life.

Just keep eating.

Gotta go jet set some crazy stuff,

Skin&Toast

Portfolio construction dolls

And in my most confident of puffy chest selves,

I have to admit,

That

I knew that she wasn't there.

And, I have to conclude from the feeling I find,

The feeling I scrape

From the edge of my grey spotted chicken liver;

That I didn't want her there at all.

It doesn't make sense now.

Sure maybe if I'm at a fork in the middle of a Chinese take out land mine I wouldn't mind, could even relish

A conversation

A glass of milk

A damp living room on a third floor

If I'm shitting my brains out in a public Bulgarian meat house,

If I'm far far away from the blond familiar patty cakes

Maybe

But, we don't really have to worry bout that

Because the hour I first believed has led me home I see

No more bad childhood

No more fat jokes

No more I'm a bad writer and they don't want me small talks

And fake mom and I have transitioned nicely into plain mom

And I'm sure you wouldn't mind

Cause you always seem to do your best

I venture to say with every Buddha blowing ass wrinkle it takes to squeeze that out nicely

Thank you millions of pennies of coffee shop therapy

But, In my waking life I don't have time to long for anything

I'm busy taking orders

Rolling forks

Operating land lines

Selling out

Ordering out

Pushing down

And out

The Calvin Klein cologne of your 100% GAP branded cuff

Links

And chains

And hard

Packing

Crunch pounding first snowy

Queen kiss

Good

Night

And, furthermore, I am ripping my shirt off,

And I am screaming,

"Take a pottery class!!!!!!"

And!

This is not about you!

There is that copy of King Lear I keep on my dining room table that I haven't touched in years.

There is that copy of Motherless Daughters I keep on my shelf that I haven't touched in months.

Over two hundred interviews.

Respectfully, this is not about you.

Its barely even about me.

Its about that copy of Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters that I haven't touched in days,

On my night stand

On my chamomile,

My honey

My lavender

Scrub.

It doesn't go away.

She asked me what was wrong

I told her I broke a window

She laughed and said that she had been meaning to get a new window

Three years later

She told me she was leaving

One year later

She was gone

Every time I take my shoes off I remember her

But somewhere

In between the rage and the cold showers

And the fried chicken

I couldn't care less

Except there sometimes seems to be a thumping in the back of my head

Especially when the seasons change

Particularly when I cross a street between the hours of noon and four

I’m talking about my mother

I’m looking at the patches of light on the floor

I’m drinking tap water

Happy enough at my table

But

Wailing on Wednesdays out my back door

Like a kitty lost

Come back Come back Come back

You little wretch like me,

Skin & Toast

PS: Watch Letterman tonight. Count Animal and his lady of the pink tights have friends appearing as tonight's musical guest. As I would imagine they say in the Merge house; support local music bitches.

I know I know I know I know I know

I know that all the sugar plum visions are wrapping against the pads of your fingers

I know it happens to be that instant of the calendar where the globe forces you to consider

The breaks and glitters and cracks and hikes of the most recent past

And with that comes a lofty to do list

Loft like those Wicker Park cheese cubes I remember eating when I still wore pink dresses

When I valued things like survival

And water supply

Looking back at the past ten years I realize an internal platonic shift from

So glad I didn't die last night

To let me get a look through that telescope please

I seem to be disenchanted with the reflection

I seem to feel the plates in my back expanding

I seem to keep depression at bay with a diet low in dairy and very high in food

Just keep eating

Never stop

Blend everything together with chocolate powders and do some mild stretching

Barely break a sweat and don't bother to take your socks off

Socks are key this time of year

Lambs wool

Lama's breath

Spider lips

Bundle up and turn it on

Keep those tiny embroidered daisies around your ankles and forget what you were talking about

I'm a writer!

I can tell because every time I go to the Grind I run into six people I know through the work

Through the business of salads and words and hugs and hanging lights

Have to settle my tab,

Skin & Toast

Well That Went Well,

Twelve days later,

It's safe to say,

That went very well.

The at home life is pretty much exactly the same,

In case you were wondering.

But, see that's the point.

We looked around at our home one day,

And said, hey,

This is a marriage.

Lets be publicly in love.

Lets do this.

Completely.

With the best of intentions.

So now,

We have the same ol' familiar package of bacon,

And the same drawer of underwear,

Except,

Now resting on the basement of this one particular weekend of awesome memories to have and to hold till death,

And not really even death,

Personally, I'm promising all of eternity.

One.

Two.

Jump.

We've enjoyed sleeping in,

And drinking whisky,

And having Christmas,

And breaking from the grind,

And singing hilarious original songs,

Tonight we're thinking of driving to Rockford for dinner.

I love, and love, and love,

Him,

Skin & Toast