TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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24 May 2008
After the twenty-four bellydancers leave, the restaurant is in shambles. Stained tablecloths form islands across the rice-speckled floor. Precariously stacked dishes await on every table. A hundred dirty glasses mob the bar. The porter flops next to a pile of cutlery, her eyes wet and red-rimmed. The chefs are grumpy, but everyone, even the porter, says, Eat. You must eat.
Eat my daughter, insists uncle chef, smiling.
I sigh. Life is too short, my mother would say. She was (still is): nimble, adaptive, dignified.
Now I get her point.
Eat. You must eat. . . .
Ah, but how you eat! And how the world eats (or doesn't)!