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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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10.20.04, wednesday afternoon

Dreamt about shit, many upturned bottoms, my mother.

It has been four months since she disowned me. Most likely she does not think of it as disownment but more like how my brother sees it, i.e. simply ignoring my existence for the rest of her life.

. . .

I love the world, post-rain. Yesterday afternoon, the rooftop of the next-door pastry factory glistened as white furious plumes rose from many chimneys. At the horizon, clouds gathered grey and pillowy above the cranes. All very distracting and not very kind to fingers when one is cutting vellum with an X-acto knife.

An excellent post-rain activity is to attend a reading at night, especially with darling Elka and one's blood quickened by Chilean wine. Amidst dozens of the worddrunk, we thrilled to a story by Tobias Wolff about a man at a bank and the memory that unfolds when his cranium is trespassed by a bank robber's bullet.

"Bravo!" rhapsodized the woman who sat in front of me, she with the fabulous rope of wind-frizzled coffee and nut whorls that she had wound with her long thin fingers into a tight euphony of filament.

Outside everything was wet and black and dripping while inside me, everything was wide awake and even singing, the voices cracking slightly from disuse, singing at the top of their lungs in that hall abuzz with throats gulping great heaps of air at a dexterous sentence or the self-shattering image shared by all and one.





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