Plathological

intake

Christ, someone has to do something about this ennui problem; it's the weak bladder of western society. Depressed all day and no explanation for what’s wrong—it’s harsh: I can barely get words out. My veins and pulse scanned under ultrasound--curled with motion sickness, it's a small, greyscaled version of me on a medical screen, an echoed resemblance to myself--it has straight teeth, fair warning, a month by month definition of the seasons: February--hollow noise in the hand like a baby rattle, shaking, imported plastic. It tries to catch my eye, its lids formed and unglued since the last check-up. And me, the belly down here on these off-blue sheets tucked around the stretcher: living off grilled eggplant stuffed with provolone, Turkish figs, halved green peppers—marinated and stuffed with rice, vegetables. I think sardines can save me: this apartment doesn’t get direct light; it faces the inside of the building and gets strange urban diffused light and I look at the can of sardines and it says 110% of recommended daily value of vitamin D is inside. This apartment shuts the world out. It doesn’t face the noisy main street, makes me think the world doesn’t exit. With its high ceilings and diffused light, it makes me feel like I'm in a sub-wing of a cathedral. Well fuck, Cat Power can’t save me. Altering my clothes can’t save me, though I have a pair of nicely sharp blades. I need a haircut. I need to book a haircut. I need a new carrying case for my laptop.

The world: went for a walk at two in the morning in my black peacoat and boots and there was a homeless guy in the Dairy Queen parking lot. He was standing under the lit awning of the ice store; he was wearing a fuzzy green bathrobe and dolling toothpaste on his toothbrush, gingerly. Bedtime for bums. In a word, he asked me for change, “Change?” Dunno, buddy-- have some mouthwash in my shoulderbag, though.

You know. It’s all those drunken groups of fat frat guys in wide shorts at two in the morning. They’re so drunk that they walk into storefront windows while gabbing into their cell phones and I keep thinking Girls don’t like you, girls don’t like you, girls don’t like you. I keep thinking. Where are your women? Is that your grey area? I'm so bored I actually start to notice you're there. In the same blink I remember tax season is coming up, forms to fill out.

In darkness,
the city is a basement. We hunch in its hallways
like Goya's cats, low to the ground and brindled
with enigmatic rashes, stiff in the joints.
Glued together with rye, or blow, or glue,
we are a regular family.
[Karen Solie, "The Vandal Confesses"]