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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


02.03.03, monday afternoon

When I say Yours, I mean the following belongings:

Postcards, Polaroids, recipes for disaster or vegan choclit cake. Newspaper clippings you have kept for the last ten years. Inquiries, concerns, (scandalous) propositions. Small found objects, tiny bottles of Parisian boutique perfume, a lock of your child's hair. Lists of groceries you can never afford. Poems you have translated. Haikus you wrote in grade school. The mud that has collected in the tread of your bike tires. Fortune cookie slips collected in a jar by your bed, along with pennies, ticket stubs, safety pins, and tacks. Descriptions of the living spaces you have left behind. Note if you ever felt at home.

An alphabetized catalog of a hundred things you observed in your neighborhood last night. The biographies of your closest friends, accompanied by photographs of their most memorable body part. Vials of water from your last bath.

A one-paragraph narrative of your latest dream, paperclipped to notes detailing the nature of your non-dreamtime relationships to all characters and places involved.

Shards of the teacup you absentmindedly broke this morning, the one that had belonged to your grandmother. A map consisting of the locations of every donut shop in your city. Pages torn from a favorite novel with passages underlined in scarlet and accompanied by footnotes.

Last year's planner, which should have entire months left blank when you were heartbroken. There should also be weeks crammed with appointments, notes, phone numbers, ideas, weeks when you were no longer heartbroken but curious and defiant and eating again.






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