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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


08.29.02, thursday afternoon

Dreading: autumn, the color grey clinging, oil-slick, to the leaves, your skin, strangers passing by you in the street. The retreat of people's flesh under sleeves and tall winter boots. Another heartbreak. The loss of more friends, simply because of geographical distance and the cost of airplane tickets.

But the crushes! On skater girls and skinny boys. Sty-lee girls in pointy-toed witch shoes and girls who growl, I just don't give a shit. The lady who serves me my coffee every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, with cream and complimentary drawl, no sugar. Mel, who seems to grow younger and younger every year, sleeves rolled up to reveal tight biceps from years and years of moving constantly and re/un/building always. Rini, who insists on calling me Philly, even tho' it reminds me of Philly Cream Cheese. (But Philly is much better than Peanuts, my nickname throughout grade school.) Niva, such a sweet surprise near morning, asleep with her lashes grazing her apple-cheeks. Fernanda, loud and brash, quick to yell and quick to laugh. (And quick, before I forget, tho' I haven't seen them in awhile: Sohini, Shilps, Jhumpa, Elinam, Laurie, Sara, and Zhaddi. ) Smart girls, too, like Mimi and Kat and Annie. Then there's anchor-collector Tara and the curator Astria Suparak, who was named after a romance novel heroine. Lynda Barry, Francesca Lia Block, Christa Donner, Coco Fusco, Angela Carter (always), Toni Morrison, the brothers Quay, Jan Svankmajer - too many to list! And don't get me started on the poets, Dipti dahling and mister Sri, who - tho' he's "seen the fight and the rancid fruit" - still prays to "let this love be the work we do". Amen.






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