TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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11.27.04, saturday night
Dearest orangepeeler, my right foot is asleep right now and sometimes I think that I am like that foot, asleep when I should kick and dance and tramp in concert with the other foot through cities, forests, houses, anywhere that offers me refuge, intellectual challenge, and a flute of champagne (optional).
But only my foot is asleep. I am simply too busy to write letters or poems, take photos, paint, sew clouds, or water plants. And lord knows the tub needs a good scrubbin', but this is okay (until tomorrow), I'm sure I will return to cameras, paintbrushes, and plants. Maybe I will also remember how to string a pearl of a sentence.
Every day I work, bike around the lake, read about the penguin (child bird to Argentinians) or the actress Louise Brooks (who once said, I have a gift for enraging people), and furrow my brow over pennies and grad school. Today, in addition to some of those doings, l sipped merlot and admired the fluttery scarlet silk dress and pearl grey pin-up shoes that I will wear next Sunday. Everything's wiggling quite enough, thanks to this getting my act together business.