TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
12.26.02, thursday evening again
Before I can count the minutes left of winter sunlight, night blooms black quickly, Sickly, I think that I might be restored by tropical waters, Fiji natural artesian water to be exact, bought at Haight-Ashbury Produce from Kostantinos Vardakastanis, to whom you should greet hello if you are in the neighborhood because even tho' he is not good for long conversations, he is still friendly and raw-ther handsome.
But I am nowhere near restored, shivering in this warehouse typing letters to people I have neglected the last few months, lean as they have been in terms of money and luxurious as they have been in terms of wild emotion. Love is not a game, I have discovered, on 1st and International. Nor is it something to be put on hold, like a piece of clothing you are considering carefully of buying, as I have learned at 18th between MLK and Jefferson. We fight because he is scared of my bike-propelled recklessness. Or I am suddenly worried that the loss of him will happened, before I have recorded his presence through photo and story. Is this, as Miromi wonders, when a girl becomes a woman?