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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


10.06.13


My flat feels eerily empty whenever D leaves, despite furniture, potted plants, bikes, glowing screens, and piles of books. An inhabited space is more than the sum of its arraigned objects. To inhabit is to have habits within a space, habits that occupy the space with sensory details. After three years of being together, if not always in the same space, if only for a few days at a time, inhabited space means his tweed jacket hung on a kitchen chair, the faint stink of cigarette smoke, half-finished bags of peanuts in a cupboard, the cries and commentary of a sports match on the telly. Mundane, I know, but if I never heard or saw or smelled any of these habits, I would miss it. The smells and sights and textures of himself are embedded in my sense of "home", part of my way of being-in-the-world.





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