TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
I didn't learn to walk, I ran, Atalanta on the day I discovered what feet could do. "You always get bumpy head, but you couldn't stop," Mom said the other day. "You hang onto the chair, look at me, smile, and then off you go!" I have two sides. Contemplative, nostalgic, dream-eyed. Or restless, ready-to-bolt, futuristic. A golden apple was once tossed at me. But I held onto it for too long; I sat still for years, watching it rot in my palm. Now what? I should remember my first, albeit wobbly and bruising, inclination.