TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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I miss Jorge. Home is different. No longer fresh from windows open onto the port all day, the house smells sickly-sweet due to a trio of tall vanilla-scented candles A has burning from evening till midnight on a glass plate piled with sand and pebbles in the living room, among her books titled The Spiritual Path: Buddha Zen Tao Tantra, Wisdom for our Times and The Sugar Solution (one of the chapters is "28 days to Better Health and a Slimmer You"). A big juicer, clunky multi-tiered steamer and other esoteric culinary apparatuses clutter our small counter and dirty water pools around the dish rack. Inevitably, the house brims with electric light (energy-saver she is not) - no more gentle shadows, but bright light in spaces A's not even using, and the TV is always on, even when she's reading.
I know, I'm nit-picking. A matter of differing aesthetics and living customs, yes. "Oh, but you should judge a person by their books," said Jorge at yesterday's film quiz and I sighed. No, you shouldn't, I suppose, but, ah, if A. puts up another glitter-encrusted snowman!!