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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


01.28.03, tuesday night

The weekdays run into each other without saying excuse me. They tangle in a nest of SKUs, prices, the images of toys that must be given pat and celebratory descriptions that will pry open the wallets of eager consumers looking for collectibles that they will later sell on Ebay because suddenly everyone wants them: they are rare. Precious. Because that is the way the market works.

This all happens within the hours I make my bread, 10-6, sometimes 7 or 8, Mondays through Thursdays and then 10-2 on Fridays. After staring at a computer during these hours, I rest eyes and feet on the train between Berkeley and downtown Oakland.

Rewind: Summer, late-night mischief, Monday afternoons riding a (now flat) bronze Schwinn alongside the lake, the chance encounters that happen only when you are idle and wandering, not suspecting the accident round the corner that will surprise you awake, excited, ready to write volumes and volumes about things that can never happen in offices and business districts.






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