TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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03.24.03, monday morning
June, 2002. Melancholy is a raw-ther boring sentiment at this point, for the girl who lives in a dark and lonesome attic, surrounded by the books and dishes and dust that past inhabitants had left behind. The raccoons have not invaded yet. In the mornings, she will press her ear against the carpet and listen to the movements below.
There are busy people down there. People sigh, cook, stroke guitars, cocks, clits. A humid movement, of hands warm and sticky with summer, gliding over objects or skin. Movements like bare thighs flickering against each other or new butterfly wings drying in springtime, flapping wetly as the insect shivers. What a shock it was, to emerge from the cocoon into light, sunlight or moonlight, light, something that had filtered through the walls of the cocoon to the little creature inside absorbed in its own steady transformation.
What about the butterflies that never made it? The butterflies that never cracked through their cocoons, but only stayed inside and died, neither caterpillar nor butterfly, but something other, to wither into dust or be devoured by astute beak. Or, perhaps, to be discovered by some child or young woman, who will stroke the cocoon and wonder at the energy that had once struggled within.