TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
Purging entries (especially the bad poetry), executing remorselessly, click, goodbye. Look for anything concerning, surprise surprise, the moral (gag) fitness of the writer: family, sexuality, alcohol, first encounters--some, not all, parts of the body of ideas and realities that fuel my writing on-line and off-line.
The winter-cleaning's good for me. I wince at the shoddy construction of certain realms, the emotions that made all the seams unravel easily, the missives from an immature writer bound too much to the intimate, to the obscurely personal.
I've been too safe too long, turning to this site as a therapeutic outlet for dangerous emotions rather than to explore language and the ideas that zing through my head. I'd rather write letters now, letters to friends and strangers, people in faraway places.
Don't know if this is "the end". Never thought of "the end" and perhaps that's why it should happen, another necessary loss.
Only one worry: my mind is a sieve, a receptacle notoriously unsuitable for the task of retaining memory. Thus I wonder what sort of things would go missing, driven underground because no more sounds exist to suggest their shapes and the realms those things may haunt.