TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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08.15.02, thursday evening
Although heartbroken, I don't even have the time to languish in it. [ puts hand above brow, damsel-in-distress style ] I'm in the most productive moment of my life, meeting deadline after deadline, crafting or guiding new stories. I can't sleep at night because my fingers will suddenly crawl into my journal, helplessly gravitating toward the comfort of paper and pen. Scribbling yet another idea, I am inkstained with notes, phone numbers, to-do lists. And of course, I read lots, inspired by Angela Carter, Coco Fusco, Zadie Smith, many other women who are daring, armed with a sexy brains, sexy words. (Even if I am suddenly asexual, without romantically-inclined desire to spin heady my thoughts.)
Although, dammit, I think my imsomnia may be a result from reclining fitfully on a mattress positioned near the sound of that damn fountain outside my window. Joanna says that the landlady suffers from post traumatic stress syndrome, for some unspecified reason and perhaps the sound, echoing among the narrow walls of the atrium between the two houses, drowns out the voices that stir in the heavy darkness of night.