TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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10.09.04, saturday night
Derrida is dead, King Sihanouk abdicates, and Kerry is all for the middle class. (Which, by that declaration, leaves out the hotel workers, farmhands, seamstresses, janitors, longshoremen, painters, waiters, cashiers, . . .)
. . .
The sixth anniversary of Matthew Shepherd's death came and passed quietly. I learned about it in a pub, of all places, over a newspaper and beer. I watched a couple kissing at the bar and thought about all the mistakes some people never get to make.
. . .
Yes, I know, I said boo-hoos get the boot, but everything feels all shut off inside me. There are a number of reasons, which I won't elaborate cuz to do so would probably require a dozen paragraphs, with subjects like freshwater marshes, butterfly populations, and the current election.
Thrilled, however, to the sight of a black phoebe (see stolen photo below) catching insects wilding over sapsticky date palm flowers; its song is its name: fi-bee, fi-bee! R.P. Keigwin's 1950 English translation of Hans Christian Andersen's Fairy Tales, which contains scenes and language undelivered by previous translations/retellings. And Paris seen from outer space--like a frozen explosion of stars and stardust, jeez.