TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
Although weary, I stay quick on my feet; I have no home, no place to rest for long, and I will not have one for the next three itinerant months.
I live out of tiny suitcases and boxes stacked in a crowded borrowed room. I can't find this or that and I must improvise all the time. I live without and I'll get used to it. This perfume or that scarf is all I need, and as long as I am healthy and hard-working, everything is okay, even awesome at times. I am okay because my wealth are my friends, generous and grand and wise.
What is past, dishes and photos and connections--the membranes that connected his life to mine--will become dead skin, but pale dry flakes that drift and fly from this new shiny soft one.
Touch me, I am tender.