TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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10.15.03, wednesday night
Last night was cold enough to wear burgundy gloves and a long midnight blue coat, lushly embroidered in hot pink at the wrists and breast. The looking glass reflected long wild black hair and underneath a brown feline face hovering above the lean theft of hisbiscus evening. I blinked, glimpsing twilight-draped Oakland in reflection.
Emerging from the cloak that the city has donned by the witching hour, faces glowed, light-catching like pearl or obsidian or polished wood. We saw illuminated palm tree-lined loft interiors, tiny black cats streaking amber-eyed from underneath parked semis, abandoned spindly chairs absinthe-green under lamplight, a lit forklift beeping down 3rd street, and forlorn train decks where no one waits with suitcases, destinations in mind. Jimmy didn't spot the crimson neon CORONER'S BUREAU sign near Broadway.
Yes, Charlotte, we saw Oakland last night alright, and we also got yelled at by a man who had spied us writing in Chinatown. The bike-away would have been easier to accomplish had not my coat-tails caught on the back wheel. And so close to the police station. Yikes!