TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile
Spring: celandine and primroses and dandelions in the ditches on the way to the woods, and wood anemones and dog violets on the verges of the winding path in the woods. Even if snow came, it went, and old feelings--stagnant these past three months or so--melted away, replaced by new ones, cold and icy, but they too melted away. Perhaps the body is a landscape: it is never fixed, nor simply background, but felt and mobile and fluid, never one thing, but all things: moor, fen, wood, bog, and shore, lapped and furred, known only in solitude and stillness.