TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile
Summer, suddenly: night is kiss-sticky, especially on public transportation in April, where old women cradle heaps and heaps of flea market flowers and old men sprawl flat-out bonetired, dreaming of long Saturday mornings in bed spooning someone warm, bauble-bereft earlobes smelling like sandy sleep. Elsewhere, cheap unagi yum and sashimi anything always while brownbagging tall Sapporos at a place with no name. Later, click send and then receive cryptic e-mails designed to elicit gasps, chuckles, snorts, disturbing the surface of boredom, the not-paid-enough-to-sit-in-this-cubicle sort of boredom you have found yourself in for the past few weeks. When you come home exhausted, get cheered upon mailbox goodies, friendly letter or zine from strangers faraway. Sneak under sheets and pretend, no, you're not home, and dive deep into 448 pages of Zadie Smith's novel White Teeth, lyrical and hilarious, deeply human, something irrepressible.