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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


09.11.02, wednesday afternoon

Blah:

Bush, of course; war (& -mongering); being broke constantly; the wisdom tooth breaking through Melís uninsured gums; missing the Power to the Peaceful Festival last Saturday due to post-bird-day party hangover; dad thinking myself a neíer-do-well amidst alcoholique ne'er-do-well friends; itchiness, like a nest of fire ants crawling invisibly 'tween tender dermis & scaly epidermis, epidermis & accidental appearance; dreams of little boys peeling skin, layer by layer, recklessly.

Tops:

Louis Sacharís Holes (oh my, its plot stitches together elements such as Latvian curses, incarcerated youth, sweet onions as cure-all & kissing outlaws - seamlessly!) ; Mumís Yesterday was dramatic, today is ok; despite cops nibbling on chicken wings at the gas station downstairs, Mel breaking into the attic through the skylight so that she could steal my bird-day present: the little antique gold Schwinn that I had to leave behind a few months ago; meeting Kat at bird-day party; the fact that my chompers are insured; skin healing quickly; reading glossies at de Lauerís on Broadway, open all-nite; the proximity of Lake Merritt, even if the grass is regularly (and prolifically) fertilized with the shit of geese; Ben's bird-day gift to me: Six Days, a film for DJ Shadow by Wong Kar-Wai; "quiesciently frozen" one-dollar chile/pepino bars from a jingliní cart-pushing vendor who inquires, shyly, if I am married; living with people who believe in revolution. Even thoí to my parentsí generation, revolution meant terror & the near-annihilation of a society. Perhaps resistance rather than revolution? Oh, & the simple pleasure of picking scabs from knee & hip & nose & chin.






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