TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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01.11.03, late saturday morning
Yesterday morning, I woke up on a bag of springs in dim light, groggily assessing the state of my stomach: Poor. A C-. Too much cheese for a lactose-intolerant lady. So I fasted, imbibing coffee and IBC root beer for mental juice.
Being sick will not do at all for someone who has recently acquired a job that requires 36 hours of my life, per week, as well as a work-mandated planner, bound in black leather. So now, as serious jobs and serious relationships require, I must manage my hours . . . which requires that I must manage my habits (dietary, reading, writing, alcohol) as well.
Is there such a character as a recovering ne'er-do-well?
You see, the ne'er-do-well is committed, in particular, to one dominant vice, which dictates how the other vices happen: delaying tomorrow (or responsibility) for whatever pleasures can be stolen at this moment, such as the pleasure of avoiding another concerned phone call from your father. The pleasure of pretending that excess is the only way to do and have things, like romance and food and magazines. The pleasure of making extravagant promises that never get thoroughly accomplished because you simply flit from pleasure to pleasure, person to person, indiscriminantly sampling bodies, biographies, histories, stories and sensations without contributing any of your own intellectual electricity.
So this is what the recovering ne'er-do-well would like to accomplish through new and unfamiliar words, in an unfamiliar world: to create sensation through word and touch and gesture at this moment, deeply informed by this indiscriminate sampling and collection of stories, images, the story of love, love in the city, the city itself. Because from rich dreamtime the ne'er-do-well has wakened into a new desire: to give pleasure and to provide moments of crisis for my companions, for whoever is reading my labor, critical fictions for critical times.