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

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