TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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11.06.06, monday evening
A hundred, thousand Londons litter'd with relics of the Empire. Ebon Blakean vision, studded with angels falling or lions and dragons leering from steepletops. The Hung, Drawn and Quartered. Suited women shod in black patent leather torture devices. Jack the Ripper under brilliant blue skies. The Columbia Hotel, a hotbed for prepubescent Buddhist monks-in-training and adherents of the Sutherland Craniology Centre. Pedestals declaring: "Long Live the King, Long Live the Empire, Empire Day". Birds everywhere: train whistles, soary-vocaled Japanese jazz singers, hidden bluebirds, Sinead O'Connor's singing about how it's been sixteen years amid homoerotic portraits of muslim wrestlers. Entire floors devoted to the selling of teas and tinned biscuits. 70s/80s Bollywood soundtracks? Donuts soaked in rosewater syrup. A study in the libertine tradition. "Britain is the America of Europe". Anarchist depictions of Bush next to loving canine portraits by the same street artist. A firework-blistered night for a failed regicidist. "Fuck you" carved into the striped wallpaper next to the elevator. A massive aneurysm of images and sounds and scents. And I didn't even hit half of my list. God.