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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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02.10.04, tuesday night

Sometimes the usual can train me to be so small-minded, I become small. I forget how to write, I forget that I can chill out, I forget that I shouldn't treat people the way I do sometimes, when I am impatient or sad.

Tonight after work, I biked home, sour over another usual night, as the usual is the blithe exploitation of workers by small business owners trying to squeeze out every penny for lotus-shaped diamond rings, luxury cars, rent, etc. Let me not enumerate the many ways they squeeze myself and fellow workers, for that will simply rehash the disenchanting usual -- although until a few days ago, I would list ad nauseum and to Jimmy's displeasure, for, you see, I was still astonished that people operate not only by the expectation that businesses should run without the owner's labor, but also by the idea that it is common sense that the owner, without lifting a finger, should reap profit at the worker's expense.

However I cannot remain so naive, so easily floored by such ways of thinking or doing. Nor should I lust for a bowl of rocky road every time I come home from work, for sugar should not be my St. John's Wort. There are, of course, alternatives. Like writing. Or making collages. Or calling someone. Or having someone call your attention, through their own writing, to remind you that the usual should not conquer your mind and train you to be as small as those that allow the usual to be the dreadful, banal place that it often is.

So I turned on the computer and read the latest by Sri, who wrote about his work at the Survivors of Torture clinic: "my cardboard box of reality gets flattened everytime. it's more like my bubble wrap of reality gets jumped on and popped." Thank you, Sri, for popping my bubblewrap of the usual on what might have been a usual night.




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