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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


08.27.17

I perform 20 sun salutations, bake an almond pastry puff, and write a few emails—apologies, mostly. I contemplate the view from my desk, a thicket of fuschia no longer as green and lush as it was only a month ago.

Blossoms dangle like drop earrings, a little more ragged and fewer in number. Yellowing leaves cascade, wind-shook from precarious perches. Along the top of the pink wall, a robin surveys the backyard of a vacant storefront, a tiny and unwanted kingdom of ragwort and concrete. It definitely feels like summer is over, and what have I accomplished so far? Only a messy, grossly incomplete dissertation draft.

I sit down to write, and I write 100 words before stopping. My back feels heavy, as if a big man or beast is sitting on the middle of my spine. I start to sigh, trying to expel whatever demon has decided to visit me, but the tightness refuses to shift.

The clouds are heavy and fast-moving, and I want a real respite from this fruitless endeavour.




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