TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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The Philosopher and I had chatted late into the night, until my juddering heart slowed, with the momentary courage conferred by a hot whisky, a 10-year-old single malt, with a little sugar.
In the morning, I remembered the gate we had passed on the road to his house, the legible remnant of a castle. A useless, archaic structure, like the nostalgia for past loves. The Philosopher is fine with technologies from the past. He still listens to his tapes from the 80s, doesn't need wireless at home, dislikes Facebook and the like. "Music sounds too clean when it's digital." Mastered neat, not fuzzy and awkward like the audible slow winding of tape as the song reaches its last note.
We had coffee and chat about what, I can't remember, I am so upset. Perhaps the turlough's memory of water, springing up from below to remind us of a saturated past.