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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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11.08.02, friday night

After the rain cease, we walk to Lake Merritt. The trees rustle, wetly. The city is not cold.

My companion is tall and lean. He walks through a room carefully, thoughtfully. Sometimes he's handsome - never "cute" - like a 40s actor who has been pigeonholed as the detective because he's so good at playing the role, so good at playing the one who quietly has the hots for the golden-hearted gold-digger or the Ice Queen with the silver spoon in her mouth. (And not because she is beautiful or an Ice Queen, but because there is something about her that entices him, something indefinable but definitely strong and splendid.) Often he is not handsome. He might even be described as nondescript. He seems hungry, but patient; he paints what he has left behind.

Simply a man who has left his boyhood (Catholic school, booze-fueled brawls, traveling while "madly in love") behind long, long ago.






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