TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile
09.21.06, thursday noon
While you were gone, I went for numerous walks with Max at twilight, to watch the high tide cover the bridge and the sands drift along the shore. Found a long hooded charcoal raincoat that bells out from the waist to permit the flow of black skirts and easy cycling. Fried an omelet each evening, with different tidbits from the farmer's market: pink-gilled field mushrooms, parsley, tiny green tomatoes. Chatted with Jackie every afternoon. Ate cinnamon-scented scones as Zivile explained how she lost the "tita" from her surname. Sweated in our second summer and shivered when the first autumnal gales arrived with all the force of an imperialist army, sure of their power, crooking the whitethorn and snipping the leaves and the seed-pods from the sycamore outside our door. Slept next to M&M after watching Y Tu Mama Tambien for the second time. Unclogged the drain, yanking black hairy clots of soap and snot and tears that had collected all this summer, this summer of hard work and hard hikes and love so hard, I thought I'd bruise. Read Luis Bunuel's Last Breath in snippets, so that it read like a sprawling, winding dream unfolding throughout all the cafes of the world. Sipped wine from a lilliputian cut-crystal cordial glass and tried to predict the next week from a card.
The tarot said the week would bring me something good, but I don't think it meant you, but the feeling that you give me, the sense of narrative impetus that tints my days and nights with drama, intellectual curiousity, and a webby connectiveness to ideas, flesh, and dream.