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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


05.02.03, friday night

I suppose I should rouge my lips and get my dancing shoes on, but I've forgotten how to dance. However, I can still wiggle my butt. Butt-wiggling is easy to remember.

. . .

J and I have found a place in West Oakland - it is huge, with windows that overlook the freeway and the port of Oakland.

Around the corner is a factory, exuding the sweet aroma of iced pastries that, after falling off a conveyer belt, will be vacuum-packed in plastic by shower-capped workers and shipped to big-chain supermarkets from Seattle to New York City, expiration dates unknown.

Now we pack. Discard, recycle, sand-paper, paint, debate the necessity of three can openers and No, you may not take that ugly table.




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