TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile
Irish summers are early and brief. The end of March is feverish, a quickening of senses, as winter drops away and attention is pulled away from dark interiors toward the ecstatic blooming of gardens and hedgerows. April and May are unseasonably warm: dogs pant in the shade, raw meat smoke on outdoor grills, children wander the town languorously, in t-shirts and floral dresses and sandals. Suddenly it’s over, and by June, damp gloom becomes the ever-constant fixture in our lives, saturating our thoughts and dictating our movements.
Over the weekend I stained the pub floors. The polyethylene must have gone to my head, as I had many vivid dreams. One featured Madonna, having acrobatic kundalini yoga sex in a gigantic high-hanging fishnet stocking. God. We have been getting the pub ready for Monday’s opening: replaced drapes, painted, added lighting, deep-cleaned, ordered stock, etc. However, the government has not given any guidelines yet, and they may decide today to keep the pubs shut, as the r number has risen. To be honest, we wouldn’t mind if we stayed shut longer.