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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


11.23.01

Listening to Bjork’s Vespertine over and over again. Much-needed salve, especially after a traumatic last night.

Inside me a black hole widens, swallowing memories and running water.

Alone in the attic, I forget that I have friends, far away from this place suspended above the streets of Berkeley, away from the sounds that bustle and thrive.

Progress means nothing, here in a place that entombs civilization, curious artifacts gathering dust in silence: cracked dishes, smashed lightbulbs, a shattered coffee-pot (apologies to Mel), plastic medical i.d. bracelets, waterlogged books, cigarettes in a stagnant pool. Above me stamps the beer-sloppy feet of an ogre, the slumlord, rattling dust and burnt wood from the rafters.

I watch Beast, with his head busy in a can of tuna, tongue dragging at minute remnants. The can shuffles across the linoleum, a sound desparate and awkward.

Quick, snap a picture: the shadow of deep discontent flickers across the face, a cleared table, the mud-tracked carpet.






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