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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


12.08.05, thursday evening

You're quiet. You're dry. Only doing what you've done since the first time you could tell things apart and describe them. You soak everything in but you can't translate it, a stranger to the world and every story a collection of fancy objects. Then, BAM. This country gets under your skin and you can't sleep unless you read every book and watch every documentary. When you go under, you wake up from dreams of invented whales, shouting Moby Dick is spectacular, and you're enticed by Matthew Barney's elegant even sublime suggestion that every invention, every imaginative work, recalls and extends human biology; "the world's our prosethesis". You wear your house on your back and you see spiders as artmakers and you remember that there are at least two ways to enter a room or a house. You are writing in a way you wonder why the fuck you hadn't previously imagined. At the crossroads the fountain's been smashed open, every basement in the village flooded




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