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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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11.04.04, thursday night

Tonight Amanda and I edited the video for my installation. What a while we endured, sleepy yet taut, as we transferred the images of a few lots round town from her computer to a videotape waiting on my desk, but we finally did it, after coffee, chocolate, cigarettes, a few teacups of wine.

Looking out at the blackness of night from a chair where I sit with my back to the blackness of my house, I am nervous about tomorrow. After all, I don't know if I like the installation; as you may have already gathered, I am both perfectionist and Doubting Thomas, two selves armed to slay the artist, the poet, the dreamer.

However, as I have learned from fine-tuning the soundtrack with Amanda and painting owls: from folly and fantasy and plain pluck unfolds the poem, poems, spaces potentially vast and light and shadowy, trembling as a transplanted heart must in the palms of the one who will connect it to the sustainable future of an individual's life.

Not to suppose that the installation will be so beautiful. At this point, I am only happy that I have accomplished something new, something that does not gaze at its shoes but out at the world.

Henceforth I will aspire to sublimity in every action I commit with my guides Folly (what can be learned from it), Fantasy (what is possible) and plain Pluck (what can only push that fantasy to fruition) . . . and I hope my friends will too, wielding light of their own pain and virtue to illuminate what cannot be seen due to the rhetoric that obscures, vilifies, and oppresses possibility. Goodness knows, we all need it these days and nights.




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