TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Is it August already? The year flies in a welter of births, marriages, and deaths. Maybe you grasp a morning when everything seems clear. I call this the green view. It may happen unexpectedly, say, the morning after a wedding party. You perform your usual rituals: eat an apple, exercise with the gym tv on mute, breakfast among the bleary-eyed. Then you wonder what to do while the significant other sleeps off his late hour in the residents' bar. Explore, perhaps. Find a secret garden, offering tumbled-down roses, birches pale and naked where lichenous bark has peeled away, and a weeping willow that reminds you of the one you used to worship years ago, in your university years, where you came to celebrate, contemplate, and grieve. The garden path becomes a long unexpected walk in shadow, winding through birdsong and arboreal musk, along the edge of a golf course. You pass an old man who says good morning, and you pass him again later, shuffling alone, sure and steady, taking in the glorious vistas amidst the traps and follies, and is this a metaphor for your life, you wonder. You wonder.