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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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02.23.04, late late monday night

Listening to Alice Coltrane and reading David Wojnarowicz (and wondering why I didn't sooner and why I'm here in this country any longer). There are things I want to tell you but time passes grain by grain and with each grain every nuance and why attempt to snag each grain when more and more fall, luxuriously, the sound of each falling grain more pertinent than the ones that fell before?

Forgive me, I'm tipsy. And last week--those seven or so days were such a doozy. Who knew? I can't remember everything. I certainly can't remember the dreams. So, just what I need to remember, the mysteries of my life: the tumor is gone from the lung of a man I have yet to meet in person; you're back from India, even if I spoke, wearily, only a few words with you; although I didn't see the people I wanted to see at Jimmy's art show, I saw people I wanted to see when I saw them at last; and finally, I translated, even if translation was difficult (not because the difference was insurmountable, but because the everyday distracts focus away from the nuances of that difference and perhaps that is the way it wlll always and should be), stumbling blithely in a dimly lit labyrinth where meaning is illuminated only if I follow the direction indicated by the semaphore waving flags in the millennia-old attempt to bridge the distance between two points.

And those silly ravers didn't leave Jimmy's room of bottles a mess, even though I thought at first they would, when they came in with their brooms like that, beetle-browed and so serious when they should have been laughing, only to become part of the installation as they swept the remnants of drunken destruction, shards of what had contained Knob Creek, Budweiser, Royal Crown, Jameson's, etc.--all those bottles that have haunted us for months and months--into a glittering unrecyclable pile of glass, here in the former meat processing plant where the walls still bled dark pools of blood.

Lars exclaimed, I saw faery wings! I am 26, I thought when he said that. And I was surprised, you see, to ponder the implications of my age, to know again that there are fashions and demons and inclinations and expectations that I have left in my past, a collection of grains swept into a corner no one ever uses, curious dust and nothing else. And I was gratified, to also know that this realization will never be new but will renew, nonetheless, even at this moment when I can only think about Alice Coltrane and David Wojnarowicz and why you never showed up and Jimmy's blue eyes and your lung and the things you must have seen in India and the letters I must post and ...




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