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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


03.11.04, thursday morning

I want a vacation, just like my upstairs neighbors who has taken away their clump-clump feet and crying one-year-old baby away. I want a vacation from my hang-ups. I want a vacation from my ego. I want a vacation from my past which I mistakenly believed exorcised; it inserts itself into my speech and my ways, into the way I treat and receive people. I want a vacation--not to a city of bright lights but to a small utopia. To a bit of nature. Or to the small dark room of a friend I have not seen in a long time.

. . .

Dammit. I did not intend to get all emo/crybaby. F@&**!!! And why won't my paragraphs quit centering when I want them to?!

. . .

Last night was awesome, tho'. After work, my co-worker & I biked quickly down Broadway as the lights were green green go! all the way to the ice cream shop where, from a trio of tired ice cream servers ready to close shop, we bought sugar cones of sweet cream & cookies which we licked & nibbled on the pier watching the old ships asleep with their sails furled, even if we had to snicker at the asian girls in their velour jogging suits exclaiming nigga what again and again under the jauntily cocked bills of their trucker caps. R. & I discussed Eva Hesse & Diane Arbus & Manuel Ocampo & her paintings & my novel. For the first time in a long time, I was excited about ideas, about the differences & similiarities & subtleties among people, about what I do in the times when I am alone with my thoughts.

During the bike ride home alone, the air sighed up my bare arms & with it, I hummed my own song, the one I sometimes hum when I am at work; it is a wordless song, without a home, distilled through a very gentle emotion or essence, through the sweet things that I forget to hear when I must answer to the exigencies presented by the world.




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