TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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01.09.03, thursday night
Last week Sara's lil black cat scratched me, leaving behind one line running scarlet and vivid up my left paw. As it heals, it is itchy. I try not to pick off the minute scabs, now black like a little black cat. But there's a certain pleasure in revealing the raw flesh underneath, no matter how thin, how forgettable in the future.
Lately I've been trying to not obsess over history, over possible acts of emotional vandalism committed by me. Wasted energy, really, to regret everything you've ever done in your raw-ther long career as a ne'er-do-well; you're always gonna be a social retard. Regardless of how many bars, meetings, or transactions of word and money ever undergone. ("Social retardation is the new radicalism.")
I'm often told that I shouldn't use that as an excuse anymore. There comes a point in time and space where one may decide to change: crisis. I keep quiet, hibernating with my Heron in wet sleepy Oakland. But still,...
Last night I sat on the steps of my house for awhile; my keys were still unfound. Edward Said is hard to read when you're cold. Instead, I meditate on the word "mindfulness" when I should, instead, be mindful.
Why don't you read Littlecough, Ouijaboard or Ariana instead?