TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
The cold reminds me of flesh, hunger, frailty. Bacchus, brim my cup. Wine warms. Loosens tongues. Eases journeys to beds and sticky dance-floors. Forgives, if temporarily.
The next day, the world is wet. Incessant sluicing, slicking, licking sound, even as ambulances wail and bundled smokers light and fume in shadowy entrances, between painted snowfalls, at the crossroads. White swan in black river sips black water under black sky.
Pan, I'd like to get to know you. What does the last god in the world, goat-man and child of Hermes, initiate? He crowed, ever wise. After winter, spring. After the long sleep, the chaos of awakening and revival. After the fear of lonely places, self-knowledge, if ever little. Panic is necessary; the crisis before that moment of genius only the courageous experience.
The giddy mind turns to beginnings, new ideas, eddies of images, scents and sounds, all coalescing into that first vital sentence.