TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile
Spending all my hours indoors means no birds, no stars, no clouds. I can't remember the last time I looked at a tree, really looked at it, all the leaves or the lack of it, the branches clattering in the sky.
Everyday I read about spaces that don't exist, spaces people devote considerable time and effort into constructing, but never fully realizing, so much blood and oil and tears. I read and think about these spaces in a cubbyhole littered with coffee cups and notecards, with pen marks up and down my arms and myself dripping Post-its everywhere.
I am turning into a strange beast in academia-land, wide-eyed, sniffling, tangled-haired, wondering what would trees look like in these places that don't exist.