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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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09.06.04, monday noon

This birthday was epochally different than previous birthdays, for a baby and highly significant others were present and no boozy hijinks occurred. It was a lovely birthday, I finally decided in the morning, even if I did not get to see so-and-so and so-and-so and etc, for I got to see so-and-so and so-and-so and etc.

We grazed on bread and olives and roasted garlic and gazpacho. We listened to the music my bellydancer friend had recorded for me. We played scrabble, where we spoke a new language: Quicnel! Aauzoay! Qeiloel!

I flitted from person to person, like that butterfly who cannot build bridges, resting my feelers on a bewildering and immensely interesting diversity of voices and cheeks.

. . .

I said, I refuse to be happy! Jimmy swung me around until we were both dizzy. His chest was a field of sea-glass green, his warmth overwhelming. I frowned, then failed at quelling the upturning of lip-corners.

Always at the periphery, this field like the sea, sometimes green, sometimes blue, sometimes black. More and more colors, only I can't always see them. Change. Although I know I am subject to change, I am always battling change. I am quick to think things are awry. I blame myself when friends go away, when relationships change. Rather than reducing situations and people to paintings lacking complex color schemes, I should remind myself of this field at the periphery.

Now I must go and water the philodendron monstera deliciosa. To give a plant to a friend is like introducing that friend to another one who cannot speak but nevertheless speaks a lot and does neat things like catching the sun with its glossy tendrils. Drink up, my friend.






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