TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
12.10.04, friday evening
Twilight came. The lady's office did not overwhelm as much, after hours of labor. Banished furniture, gadgets, the extra rulers and calculators she would not need. Took down some tschotchkes and opened the shutters. Let the room breathe; let the world come in, for an hour--cars, barking dogs, a gang of children squabbling among themselves, birds singing an unfamiliar song on telephone wire.
Later there was a row of Red Delicious apples impaled on a black iron fence and a train stinking of smoke. And although nice and new are rare and not so missed, on the train I still thrilled, secretly, privately, for these sartorial items are peculiarly apt for train-riding: thrifted blue Italian leather gloves so tight that you could easily discern a fingernail's shape, Jimmy's navy cashmere scarf, a wool coat sewn in Tokyo during the Seventies and the color of those rusting chimneys at the abandoned factory where I had painted a Phil-sized owl.
Now I am sipping a little bourbon, writing this entry, and editing a friend's paper. The faucet drips, the upstairs neighbors have put their child to bed, and all is dark except for the glow from this computer screen. Ah, and the windows are open, as usual; I take for granted that my house breathes all the time.