TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile
10.11.02, friday afternoon
Today I will spy birds everywhere. Canaries stenciled yellow on concrete, their tiny beaks clutching banners, the words long erased by feet. Crows cawing in the palms at Dolores Park. And before the light flashes green at the intersection of 18th and Dolores, a beheaded pigeon, dried viscera, vermilion-pinioned husk.
At 18th and Alabama, a flock of pigeons will dive and swoop in blue sky, resting only briefly before raising their wings yet again. Overhead the dry thunder of military jets will rumble relentlessly throughout the afternoon's squint-eyed wiredrawn crawl, neatly submerging the steady sweep-sweep-sweep of an old man's broom as it will brush against wet cement.
Unlike distracted pedestrians such as I, the young black man painting a door will not pause to crane his neck at the sky, metal birds, the birds of feather and blood. Instead, he will cock his head to observe pastel green handiwork, legs planted firmly apart. Behind chicken-wire, the car-light eyes of robots will be tireless; they have been constructed from the rejected, the refuse of the City.