TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
03.02.03, sunday night
On the outskirts of Laney College rolls a small park. Wild rabbits black and cashmere grey feed here, hopping blithely through the tall grass and under the unused benches. Humans don't linger long here, where the lake becomes mud flats during low tide. Sea gulls also come here to feast, wading into the glistening shores to pluck the mussels left naked and vulnerable by the daily migration of water.
Wheeling in a sky that is sometimes blue, the birds will drop mussels from great heights, unto a long-winding paved path where the shells will crack open, revealing tender grey meat that shivers with exposure. The black tar-top is littered with thousands of gleaming shell-bits, probably from unswept years of mussels dropping from the sky during low tide, tiny fat bombs that leave little behind on the landscape, only shattered rays and cracked nacre, traces of what had breathed by muscular foot planted on the soft belly of a human-made lake in Oakland.