TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Is this vacation or purgatory? Every day is the same in Leitrim. Cloud-shrouded peaks. Crappy movies. Rugby or football on the telly. Walks in seaside towns, where there's nothing to do but watch the surfers, drink in dark pubs, grub on bowls of too-creamy chowder tasting of the sea. I pine for my bike, paints, an art show to kick the synapses alive. In the evenings we await the steel din of cutlery. The salty unctuous aromas of Mammy's cooking: roast meat, buttery cabbage, mashed turnip. And, with the exception of Good Friday and Christmas Day, there is ever the gentle din of drinkers in the pub downstairs, where I once found a bag of russet spuds under a chair while sweeping up last night's crisp-flecked remains.