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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


03.15.12

I spent the day inside. This is not new. I have toiled in theoryland for the last two weeks, venturing out only once, dazed over a pint in a chip-redolent pub, to find out what manner of costume I would wear in the parade on Saturday. Neither leprechaun nor faery, whew. Peter's sister told us about her stolen purse, which was found the next day with poo inside. The story's lesson: keep your money in your shoe... or use a purse too small to poo in.

Ah, stories! I read so much fantasy these days, for the pleasure of being transported by a continuous narrative as it threads a sinuous way through forests, plains and mountains populated by wondrous devices and beasts, which you could take as is or as metaphors for, ah, dare I say it, the human spirit. Dreamworlds. Who said we were truly ourselves in dreams? No: We are guileless in dreams.






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