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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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12.02.03, monday night

The moment Kasara saw Jimmy, she fell in love. Every time she caught his blue eyes, she threw back her honey-crowned head to hiccup hysterical laughter. Ha ha ha hup ha hup ha heeee ha! After Thanksgiving dinner, Kasara sidled up next to her crush on the carpet while we watched Monsters, Inc and wrapped her arms around Jimmy's leg. After the movie, she archly informed him, You know, I'm four and a half. Later she asked Jimmy's mother my age and suggested that "we" (that is Jimmy's mother) ask me how old I was. Margaret replied, Dear, you should never ask a woman her age.

. . .

Just another reminder of the distance between you and you and me: No photos of beanied young men embracing pumpkin-pie-fed turkeys this year. No patting the tufted pates of cows this year, as rescued bovines chew cud and fart sans modesty. Nor will broke-winged pigeons expire in my hands this year, in a gas station right before Mel's green vintage BMW put-putted off to Farm Sanctuary. Poor pigeon and poor bird-killer (And you say you're a bird-lover, chided Jimmy). But we gave it a better send-off than the garbage man would have, burying it under a gourd tree along a long-winding road between bucolic desolation and a city you once called home.




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