TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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I am using old spectacles these days, and things are difficult to discern now. The distance between letters on a page blurs, and the whole world of language melts, black rivers of text. I am too broke to buy new glasses, as that event would entail hundreds of euros I just don't have, not with conferences I may have to attend, and books I may have to buy.
I make do, I make do with this old sight, which takes me along Lower Salthill toward school with stranger's eyes, for the pavement appears farther away than usual, the houses more stooped than usual, the stones of the walls damper than usual. Than usual. My body is bigger, clumsier. At school, at home, at the cafes, I hear things a few seconds later, after I have registered the truth of the image.
6,000 words due next Monday: my style may have to change, loosen into tangled ribbons of digressive thought and sudden, even epileptic image. The style of the estranged.