Almost before I can begin thinking about Orange, I come across a problem. A discussion as to whether or not Orange exists. I understand there are problems associated with most things, but as far as I can tell Orange does exist. It’s a smashing dress for instance which Anne Carson wants to wear to Will’s birthday party, but as usual, it’s too cold. This is a frequent complaint of hers after which she complains further that there are so many things she doesn’t understand. (Life) I’m with her but can’t for a moment think her lack has anything to do with the dress. With Orange.

Gertrude Stein writes a poem and calls it Orange In. Third in a short list sits Orange. Cocoa, clear soup, Orange, oatmeal. Stein begins to make problems but not for Orange. Just for the soup. Questions its nature. Changes it. Opts for pain over clarity. Suggests it might really be a question, might really be butter. But whatever else is going on here, there’s no resolution. No punch line to hang onto except for a puzzle concerning Real which by now is a verb: ‘real is only, only excreate’. Can that be?

Someone ought to say something about Real the verb. About Stein’s hooking it up with ‘excreate’. How does any of this make sense? To suggest Real really means to spit out. To discharge from the throat. But… if a person were to repeat the last words of her poem over and over: ‘a no since, a no, a no since a no since, a no since, a no since’. If they were, an ending of sorts. And again, if they would, I could happily discharge any worries regarding Orange. Out. Along with the soup and all the rest.