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Tuesday, February 8, 2011
4.55 a/m. It remains to be seen what Derrida said about speech . It is not the true object, although it certainly feels like it as I stand here alone at midnight in the bus lane waiting for the A2473 to open. The stamp I'm on is curved, paved with inscriptions of a burning fire. The feet touch leather, gnarled from a Peasant's cows back. The tarmac is wet with silly overtones of acidic rainfall. But with nobody passing, what fun is that? The inner speech drifts, as every hitch hiker knows, all over the place. Consciousness spreads itself out, engulfing, absorbing, monitoring, sizing, shaping, feeling the contours of itself by thought. This, the hitcher knows as he waits for a car. This the nightwatched jugglers know who save the last ounce for the chance meeting. Ah, the bus. Brilliant. Here it comes, warfing along as it always does with Jimmy Riddle puddles for peddles and tyres grooved in shiite. Splash. That awkward monument it has to navigate before it turns right onto Kensington Yard Ave. That weak sweat that Jimmy has to assuage as the wheels grind against some invisible fate--the bus which wants to crash and experience itself at breakneck speed; tyres that are built to withstand a landing on any Houston tarmac, the space shuttle included. And me here with my patterned galopshes, wrought from the same environment as plastic,( Tm says Myllar) prevents that shitte from penetrating my interior. Oh yes. I withdraw, strategically sometimes but most often when even I don't notice. (Two I's always in any self-model) The amodal sense of perception of twilight, lycnched by the coming of dawn over London. Hangover or no hangover esse, I will get that ride.