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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


09.20.04, monday night

Putting your house into order after going away for a week is work. There are dishes to clean and a bathtub to scrub. Film to get developed. Calls to make. And so much to recycle, discard or reconsider--clothes, habits, projects, relationships, etc. I don't know where to start; I rarely do and every year is another year for me to cultivate what I have always needed and never really have exercised except on rare, critical occasions: discipline. Focus. Begin with picking my diploma up from school. Then prepare an owl "exhibit", sew clouds, write letters, make a zine, paint more houses, and plan an autumnal wedding celebration.

. . .

Our cabins had the indifferent, airless interiors of motel rooms: small, stiff with bleach, the beds lumpy. Despite and maybe due to my usual wont to cherish places of habitation (however brief, however ugly), I was relieved by my emotional detachment, the fact that two suitcases could contain all our belongings. We did not belong, during that week, to books and dishes and furniture; we belonged, instead, to days and nights surrounded by trees and birds and children, the part of the river that we visited nearly everyday, and late-evening conversations, rivers of voices mingling with wine, about relationships and histories and the future that seemed so faraway, almost unbelievable in that place so sparsely populated by clocks and newspapers.






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