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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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12.26.02, thursday night no more

Odd, really, how missing becomes not-missing. How someone who could seem so essential can no longer mean like that. This is what I was thinking while I walked on Mission towards BART. Both sides of the street were bare of lively movement, not even homeless mice were stirring. The shopfronts were barred and neon-litless during this witching hour. Only the windows of Country Station were lit friendly, the indistinct forms of a troupe of butoh players wavering as they, no doubt, chuckled over sashimi served butterflies-in-the-hair and beaming absentmindedly style.

Once I would have walked hand in hand with Captain Grammar on this street, pausing to make out because we were in love. Because nothing, we had thought, could change that, not even the passage of time and the distance that must occur between cities.

And now? Tonight I will see the Heron. We are going to Inspiration Peak in the Presidio, to make out because that is what young modern lovers do, especially in the backseats of cars. Inspiration Peak is also the site where one Little Red Riding Hood had trampled dry leaf and fallen branch underfoot, toy rifle in hand, baring her teeth (and her breasts, oh lordy, Joe, what you have seen through the lens of your video camera!) as Niva directed and unseen hikers passed us in pine forest, remarking, "Whoa! Tits!" I never thought that I would shiver so, but then this is what the passage of time and the distance between cities have created: new beginnings, new possibilities, new obsessions.






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