The world is swirling vortex, atheist logos on buses merging with 17th century french philosophers wagering on God, volcanoes changing 21st century transport in the Northern Hemisphere, the small world got bigger - cut off in a way not felt for a century, and amidst it all my brain pawing at the idea of 'being text' and the notion of certainty. Where is the anchor in the world? It feels off-axis. Nothing, not even identity is static, dependable, specific, singular. Derrida becomes more and more a dark omen - he is right, but gives no clues as to how to manage a constantly morphing universe - if only he wasn't so obtuse.
The line between the reality of the author and the reality of the text - both become beings - a sacred line is crossed. A transgression... Shulamith, the pinnochio of her author, has more sure being than her maker ...
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