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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


03.14.06, tuesday morning

Next to the garage was a ramshackle kennel . . . a muddy, trash-strewn cage, really, where the brightest thing about the skinny, sad-eyed greyhounds were their yellow and blue muzzles. The next day, mahogany burros tentatively approached us, for food or affection, we weren't sure. And what was that strange yellow foam, stiff as beaten egg whites at edge of the Cascades' bank? Industrial poison or an unfamiliar natural phenomenon?

These days we aren’t sure of what we’re seeing. Either winter is digging its heels or spring is reluctant to claw itself out. The way the great beech trees twisted on the hotel grounds made me think of that party scene in The Great Gatsby, only we had arrived the morning after.

From a window on the highest floor, a little platinum-blond girl observed us, as solemn as a grey March day.




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