Summer Lull

Dear reader,
Blog times have been lean, largely because I've been out enjoying summer fun and also largely disliking my writer's voice and actually just only working.

I vow to return to the fold once i've finished meticulously flaking off my sunburnt skin. Meanwhile, grab a bleak beach read (I recommend Torpor by Chris Kraus), slather on some lotion, and play outside.



(Sad, Shrigley-calibur hopscotch from my neighborhood sidewalk)

Unbloggable, Bingo

Sudafed is full of speed, so I am on the mend! Crowned a week of drinking with 48 hours of bed-ridden sickness; these things don't do wonders for one's immune system, or so I hear. It's all been so unbloggable: illness, illicit friendships, broke-pocketed couchbound hours watching Mad Men...and a little bit of bingo.
Took a trip with some punk babes to the VFW Hall, with some ironic distancing. I was charmed by old timers set-ups of lucky trinkets but unnerved by their pull tab habits. I guess I'm not all in. The realization that a person can chase all sorts of addictions--some of them non-chemical.



Class is in the picture. Been considering the extent to which class background makes a difference. I'm poor now but wasn't raised that way. I go to the depressing poor person depression clinic cuz that's where the chips have fallen. Where do I get off being so entitled? Feeling like the clinic's decision to stock a months-old copy of the New Yorker in their waiting room is condescending. Snarling at the down-and-outers sneezing on the mousepads in the sneezy public computer labs where I compose this blog.
I'll try to do better. A self-made woman, pulling herself up by her bootstraps. A work in progress, scene missing.

McBarfer's Park

What I said in my letter to Matt...is trumped by the sentiment in my text to Ian: "Today Pittsburgh smells like pee and broken stuff."
I've been walking between garbage bars, intermittenly getting very fucking lost. Now so fucked up from a five mile walk that my legs wobble. Feeling like a bruised banana. I ate a cupcake I found in a smashed up box at a bus stop.
I might be dying.
What I said to Matt was that this trip might mark my unmaking. I start out as a hip but poor tourist--buying a beer here, a beer there--but wind up fucking destitute, wrapped in a nest of quilts, leaves knotted in my hair, loitering at the library indefinitely.
My mind is getting weird. I'm responding with interest to catcalls. A creepy hook-up can't be far around the corner.
I'm not sure if I believe in vibes, but I bet if I'm giving any off...that they're bad.
This depressive spike might be a chemical pendulum swing from yesterday's pot brownie. Wherein I merely lay crumpled on a stranger's couch at 3 am, mind racing, so horny I wanted to throw up.
If you believe in ghosts, pray for me.
If you're more practical, send mail and/or money:

EKD
1200 Boyle Street
Pittsburgh PA 15212.

Bless this mess

Welcome to 2011.
Thank you for bearing with my absence as I deal with the ramifications of my Christmas present...


"odd mesh-like creatures of uncertain affinity"

New reports impending.