TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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I woke up with a peculiar dread, the kind that is incurred on the morning after a laptop dies, taking four years of work--source material, notes, drafts, 13,000 words of a chapter that was finally starting to flow and make sense and complicate itself--into a void of uncertain dimension. Is all the evidence of that time and thought retrievable? Or is that void a black hole?
Otherwise, life is good. I am blissfully in love, with a sweet, even-tempered, excellent person who makes me laugh, always; no unnecessary tears or fears. I will see my parents and friends in January, visiting California for the first time in over three years. Yesterday I received a gargantuan romanesco in my veg box, magnificent and regal in its fractal beauty amidst tart red apples, fragrant pears, purple sprouting broccoli, dirty shallots, and one lone carrot. I also discovered dark chocolate studded with almonds and blueberries, which I will take to work and keep in my desk because it's for furtive indulging of the senses between the long hours of scholarly research. And the sun is shining this morning.
This dread will pass. It must pass.