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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


12.07.02, saturday night

I'm supposed to be a little red riding hood, strolling through pine forest in one cold and black hour. Only for Niva, my favorite cinematographer. . . But let me tell you something (quick): Last night I dream about a huge house on the edge of a desert plain that rolls as far away as my bespectacled eye can see.

The house is a school; young ones craft art. They snip away at cloth and paper, gluing snippets of scarlet and gold on black construction paper. I wander the house restlessly, just as I restlessly wake and return, again and again, to the dream-house. Before finally waking to a beard-bristly Heron, I dream of young ones cradled in the root-coils, immense and gnarled, of an ancient tree that hugged the house. There the young ones lie unwaking, as they were to never wake from dreams unrequited.

Today at the Lake, mallards mate while I am thinking about these young ones unwaking. What does it mean?

I've been too busy to write here or elsewhere. The last few days I've been in transit, often surrounded by toys or strangers holding martini glasses, bus passes, or price tags. Absentmindedly, I shuttle from place to place, sensation to sensation, exploring the fleetingness of desire. Strutting down an Astroturf catwalk at 52 Mason, I am watched by many: a new sensation. Especially since I am wearing burgundy fishnets and lime-green panties. Naked. But then again, not-naked. Dressed-up, but in my own skin, snatches of sheer fabric, unshaven armpits.

Earlier I was the dressing room attendant, guarding the wardrobe of burgeoning West Coast dress-makers. I watch women dress and undress, their bodies at serious play with buttons and zippers, flies undone, well-cut cloth flapping loose to reveal smooth skin or the surprise of dark fur and belly-roll.

Perhaps that is what the last few nights have been about: learning to dress and undress with ease in front of strangers, comfortable within my skin whether it is naked or not, in traffic or not, before mirrors, strangers, train-window glass reflecting the image of a young woman in transit.






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