TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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12.18.04, saturday evening
on the bike ride from the train station this morning up a hill, i saw green and house-cobbled hills cobwebbed by a fine fog, or smog. . . .
i almost forgot last night's conversation in that bar around the corner from the art school. something about the superficiality of social encounters. my heart sank a little last night but what happened was necessary; my friend cannot maintain superlative illusions of her friends; i should not always edit the serious from conversations with friends; if i must, what kind of friendship do we have? . . .
after lunch, i realized that i was exhausted. finally, i suppose. 6 days, jeez. . . .
on the train homewards, i read some agee. the part where he describes life for tenant farmers and sharecroppers. travelers disembark, clutching shopping bags, faces withdrawn. . . .
still, despite my friend's cold stares and my sinking heart, last night! clopping up and down streets in pearl grey high heels, a horse in a yellow dress and grey leather jacket. at the club, the singer wailed into the mike, shadows tattooed across his craggy face.