TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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08.17.03, sunday afternoon
Lately Californian week: bourbon on the rocks. Hannah Arendt's Imperialism. Two art openings, to miss. Fried okra, boiled corn, sweet tomato, strawberries juicing fingers sanguine. One pair of slouchy burgundy boots (looking for autumnís calling card). Cut, finger (bandaged reminder: Never again, Jimmy!). Every other day, I say, We wonít have soup til winter; sit and wait for the Pumpkinhead man. A glossy-black pre-Depression Royal typewriter and its many-limbed jangly jam jarring verbage awake. Laundry, hampered; sleeves sneak out, snakelike. Eyebrows, like black thin weeds, hello. Dirty hair, a tangle of thought-mice, shed skin, sex. Teeth, rotting (too much: coffee and chocolate and cigar). Thanatopsis: meditation on death.