TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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05.09.05, monday morning
You don't remember the good parts, he says. You only remember the bad parts.
I try to remember the good parts. The night we told stories for hours while wandering rainwet downtown. All the kisses we've exchanged in the doorways of corporate hi-rises, pressed soft or hard and always with awe over our rare luck. The song-bits sung from random-access memory. Your demonstration, song by song, of the myriad differences between the Clash and the Ramones. The pint of whiskey we passed back and forth after we had snuck into the Grand Lake Theatre one summer night. The conversation where we meandered from a discourse on moths to a history of wine and back again, so that moths and wine will always be strange twins.
The good parts are hard to recollect even if they are so beautiful and numerous, like moths waltzing over fields in springtime. Moths are small and fragile and live fleetingly, while the bad parts, although few in number, are so strong, so monstrous, when nourished by wounded hearts. You only need one bogeyman, one Bloody Mary, really, to scare a legion of children.
Still, a bogeyman is only a dream, among so many other dreams, and children grow up (or never at all)...