TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
05.15.04, saturday morning
My life is a two-bit soap opera. I would rather be the black-crowned night herons I see in Chinatown, perched on lampposts or shop awnings after dusk, waiting for me to pass under so that they can snag day-old buns from the trashcans below. Then I'd have a purpose, an is-ness that works. I could gorge on the carrion of the city to the benefit of my stomach and municipal trash collectors. . . rather than hoarding images of it to no avail and calling myself a writer to the distress of my conscious self and family.