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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Sunday evening, 17 August 2008


One of those post-full moon mornings, when you have to answer the door in a floor-length ballgown and unlaced Converse sneakers, sans socks.

Meanwhile, across an ocean and a continent, my friend had just given birth.

12 years ago, I poked my head out of my dorm room and spotted a gawky, tall Indian girl at the end of the hall, combing her unruly hair and inspecting split-ends with exasperation. For no other reason than to act counter to my apparent nature (and perhaps keeping with my true nature), I asked her if she wanted to talk.

Okay, she responded.

Okay to the beginning of a lovely, messy, fractious, philosophical, generous friendship.

In the meantime, the awkward teenager developed into a smart, outspoken, amazing young woman, who has, incidentally, lovely hair that I will not compare to anything because such comparisons would not judiciously describe her hair. Sometimes I feel the same way about certain people, like her. How they make me feel seems ineffable, but I try, try, try, nevertheless.




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