TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Tuesday 03 June 2008
The beam bridge led to the disused lighthouse and sewage plant out in the bay. To the left the water was tranquil, clear, turquoise; mist retreated; beyond: white cliff, white lighthouse, white sails. To the right: a rough, vibrant, black-and-blue sea. What I am, what he is, I decided.
Water, when violent, is brilliant, lively, mysterious; the sun shattered infinitely. Water, when calm, is slow to change; insects hover; swifts fly low and eat; seaweed forests reveal themselves; the sun's gentle mirror.
Open cement honeycombs cover the sides of the bridge. Wave impact is absorbed as water rushes into the web of octagonal holes. The honeycomb allows the wild body to enter it completely; the violence of wildness is tamed; the edifice is preserved in what might be considered a paradoxical, counter-instinctual manner: open, without walls.