TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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03.17.03, um, it's monday morning
Run, run, tapwater, weak and warm over the hands so cold after hours at the lake. At moonshine, we hijack a pedal-boat, somehow moored free from its port and resting against a rocky shore of the Lake. Another couple, the discoverers, simply stand on the edge, staring at floating treasure, their feet hesitant. J & I scamper aboard. There's no time for doubt, only adventure, especially after beers and Rabbit - Proof Fence at the Parkway (5-dollar tickets! 2 for 1 admission on Wednesdays! 3-dollar Saturday matinees!).
Under a moon like a cracked hard-boiled egg, J and I pedal where no human has gone, at least legally, where the birds of the city nest, near the islands that teem and sway and chatter with avian activity. Long sleek ivory-pinioned creatures glow, waking startled in the low slung branches of trees weighty with feather and leaf that brushes with the water; they will soon lift their wings and cry their lonely song to the rabbit moon, before fleeing in the wake of our frantic, human movements.
Later we dock briefly and he rushes home, to grab black paint. My feet, in their red embroidered slippers, are cold and numb. Look for us. On an abandoned dock far from the shore and littered with the shells of the mussels that the seagulls have dropped, J has painted, among others, "PS + JR 4EVA".