TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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I really miss midnight runs to Chinatown in Oakland. At the first crowded eatery I found, I’d sit there for hours, chatting away with friends and eating my weight in pork buns, sesame balls, roast duck noodles, etc. I could sit there until dawn. Sometimes I brought a book, reading away while sipping tea. Then as I was leaving, I might spot snowy egrets and black-crowned night herons dumpster-diving, prosaic yet otherworldly. At the time, I didn’t really know what I was doing with my life, but at that table, as the steam rose and time wavered, it felt like everything was going to be alright. That’s comfort food, I guess. Is that neon, lushly aromatic world being lost, gentrified beyond recognition? I hope not. I can't believe so much time has passed.