TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Right now, there is nothing more satisfying than plunging a knife into the crown of a pumpkin. Shiny hard skin, the color of the 45th American president, squeals as the serrated blade traces a near-perfect circle. Craniotomy complete, I lift the rough hewn cap, revealing seed-flecked viscera. I scoop out the guts and set them aside on last week's Guardian book review section, among knives of nefarious lengths and uses. As I work, the faces of famous authors darken and a poem is partially blotted, now a new one. Humming a half-remembered song, I carve eerie eyes and weird smiles. Thus, by an alchemy of imagination and accident, an ordinary thing transforms into something other. Afterwards I pick out the seeds and roast them, in olive oil, sea salt, and chili flakes, which I share with hubs and friend over drinks in the pub after it closes.