TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile
Today I got a xmas card for Mom. Until his death, Dad had posted their cards. He chose each one carefully, scanning for the right words in English to say, or come close to saying, what he really meant. Love from both of us, Dad would write in block letters under the lavish gilt printed message. Such writing was an immigrant’s chorography: every roman letter kinked, or curled at the ends, as if aspiring to the intricacy of Khmer script. Elegant and unique, like the trace of an extinct species.