TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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10.19.07, friday midnight
Another whirlwind of invitations, adventures, dodgings, perusals, borrowings, burrowings. Sometimes I want to hide myself. Urgently, with great feeling.
Be an undiscovered and otherwise endangered bird concealed amongst lianas. A secret note tucked in the eye of a tree. A feather drifting down a green river to the end of the world. On one's own, enclosed in a world that doesn't need discovery.
The urgency dims as the queer heady mixture (three parts panic, one part excitement) which accompanies transformation is dissolved. It, what was I, hums quietly what is not even a song.
That? Just the movement of itself among the shadows, the rivulets, the knots. Time bends around such a thing, leaves it alone, unmarked, unwanted, who wants this not-self, this thing without a name? Oh, but sometimes.