Limbo

Limbo is not a fun game that is preformed at parties. I is a place between places. As I continue to look for a house, I do my best to not become frustrated.
Yesterday I sat in my friend, Pat's, side yard, while he explained to me why I shouldn't get the mansion in East Liberty. He was right, of course. I'm working to make a writer's co-op not a fix-up-a-house co-op.
As we spoke bits of burning wood fell onto the gravel from the mouth of a steel drum. While chickens picked grubs from a five foot hight trash-pile. His house is like I hope mine to one day be. A safe haven in the middle of Pittsburgh. A separate world that somehow explains the larger picture better than that picture can itself--synecdoche.
Pat's brother over-heard my woes and invited me into his trailer where he had a laptop sitting upon the mini stove top. I sat on the rumpled bed next to a skittish pitbull, while he emailed his realestate agent's information to me.
I've since gotten in touch with the man. Hopefully this lead with prove fruitful.
In the mean time I whittle away at my novel, and work CPA the publication.
--A toast to in-between.