TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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My dreams click away in Morse code across an ocean and a continent, in another time zone. Eight hours ahead, they say: Remember.
Home. Homing in. Every two years or so, it seems, I make like Odysseus, lost after war and wandering the familiar-unfamiliar, but this time I have no faithful Penelope to whom I will return, sun-burnt and ever-wily. Who weaves the days and unravels the nights, for me?
I am sun-burnt, but wily? No, not wily, but my cup brims with Memory, poured by Hebe bending down from the house of the Divine. I hunker close to the rocky shore with the weight of it all, like a raincloud yet to burst, and I wonder when the wind will pick up and blow me homeward, eastward, to the little wind-blown medieval city I am, to my surprise, missing so much. Perhaps Galway is my Penelope.