TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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07.23.04, earliest Friday morning
I like to enter the houses of strangers. Belonging to people I'd never know. By the darnest circumstances. Like on the tipsiest Irish-black nights, droppin' off fellas visiting from Minneapolis, fellas with a prediliction for Guinness & design. Especially houses that look like Victorian cotton candy, owned by old women whose late husbands once organized civil rights marches.
Inside you'll find polar bears carved from a soft yellowing white stone that you could pull apart into pieces you'd have to be a genius to reassemble into polar bears. & bedrooms all white, lit, waiting for guests who will never come. & Art Deco posters up the banister. & shower curtains a staccato Warholian pink.
Go on, tell me a story of a house belonging to a stranger. Belonging to witches or ex-prison guards. Scaffolded by hybrid rose gardens burgeoning with ghosts & serpents. I'm sure you have dozens. Dozens of stories of houses belonging to strangers.
. . .
Is it a good or bad thing that if you were to ever meet me, I'd forget your name but never all the other details--what you wore, your scent, the sound of your voice, how you said the things I already forgot, the drift of your eyes, how I felt or knew you? Sometimes it can be so bad, I can't forgive you for how you disappointed me. Other times it can be so good, you'd never understand why, that's how little you knew you could so positively zing an individual. I could love you forever, if I knew you.