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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


03.31.04, very early wednesday morning

So long, March, & good riddance. We would like to never see your face again but we know how the earth turns & pretty soon, you'll be back again, grinning like a wolf under sheep's wool.

I am reading City of Quartz by Mike Davis, which alone would have made my week enjoyable if not for the fact that my sweet one has poison oak. Me, I just have a common cold, cough, cough, peeing all the tea I must drink to breathe phlegm-free.

Still, last Sunday, we spotted a colony of guord-shaped mud nests that cliff swallows had built among dessicated tendrils of ivy, in the eaves of the Dumbarton Bridge. Dozens of swallows swarmed in the sky, scolding us.

A broken nest is a sad sight, sad like the knowledge that once upon a time collective bird-crossings slung epic shadows across the land, hundreds of thousands of wings darkening the sky.




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