TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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02.12.03, wednesday night
Oaklandish: a peddle-boat for two floating in the middle of Lake Merritt, surrounded by sailboats, birds, tall apartment buildings. My midnight-blue dress tends to unlace itself at the most inopportune times, scandalising blue-haired old ladies, their mouths pursed coral.
Spying a yellow pyramid buoy, Heron snags it: he wants to pair it with an orange ball floating many cycles away. Later we discover that he has changed the course of a race; we watch as a dozen tiny one-man boats breeze a hundred feet further, white sails fluttering over murky water.
Days later: water falling, from an overturned bowl of dark sky. Other pursuits are at hand: to write (briefly), to read (distracted), to eat leftovers (cold), to make up, to "make her fall in love with me again" (a to-do item, scrawled in ink - he would never use a number 2 pencil - on a wrinkled sheet of paper), to call friends and whisper confessions and secrets and tales into a receiver, to imagine them laughing and sighing, close at hand.