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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


04.30.05, saturday night

Shared a small bottle of muscat at the top of a non-descript house in Berkeley with the cutest lady last night. The muscat: peachy, best with creme brulee or even kirsch-soaked cake; she: such an embodiment of joie de vivre, I wanted to move to Philly. We gabbed away about fashion, flushed pink, and looked up gossip sites online.***

This cutest of ladies gave me a tiny ceramic rabbit, on whose pink back I can rest my chopsticks. I like it, I like that, I like the idea of resting my chopsticks on the back of a diminutive beast shaped and kiln-baked for exactly that purpose. A place for everything (what, in a sense, it implies) and everything in its (tiny, deceptively useless, seemingly fragile) place.

. . .


***In hindsight, all rather girly things to share, oh how unusual in this wedded era, to be shared only for a night. Another night? It would have exhausted me. But oh how I miss hanging out with girls, even if we are rarely eye to eye or nose to nose.




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