Derrida is dead ... I really believe it now, now that I am reading him writing about death.
The death of Others.
And then Wrapping them in writing mourning he had killed them again. In my eyes ...
... and besides now I see my own death.
Myopia.
Perhaps this writing of mourning has freed me from my myopia.
...
My myopia is as opposed to her myopia which was probably something quite different. And believe me, I don’t want to write the Word so carelessly even though I have written it 4 times and alluded to it once. It is an empty hole, base space. And while it seemed something projected in front of me so that I behold it out there, it rushes in close to me at unexpected turns. The sensations of it then come from within like it was birthed in me before I had ever begun to know it. It’s a dreadful little gap. It seems infinitely deep, with a small opening somewhere close to my lungs or heart. And through the opening I can feel the pain of your not-being whistle through me as if I was strung on a wire.
And sometimes it is just a twinge. A twinge twinges at unexpected turns like when taking the strawberry jam from the back shelf of the refrigerator. And then I feel the twinge like a splinter in my lung. It’s the twinge first followed by the sense of empty space, nothing. And I wonder if I have lost a coin. Or lost for the second time the little silver Michelin man fallen down behind the bed. I can’t find it and I’ve looked everywhere. And I had liked knowing it was there in my box of secret treasures but now I’ve looked everywhere. and its gone. And then I take the jam to the table as if I was walking through a nebula cloud full of small stars.
...
My myopia and then the unsuspecting reading of Derrida’s writing of goodbyes has led to all our deaths. In the face of my myopia when my eyes became fingers that clutched at vulnerable strands. But not at all some empty space... some space that twinges when at the moment of trivial vulnerability in the front of the refrigerator searching for the jam. It’s the inanities of the mundane when I have some sudden dreadful recognition of Derrida’s-not-being and the not-being-of-others and the not-being-that-will-one-day-be-mine.
... It’s a little dark here and has that feel of being near an infinite edge. And that sense of almost falling. And I don’t care whether at the other side of your being-after-being-here is the blazing burning of the wondrous monstrous blaze of nebular star births, at the point where all the stars that have ever been come bursting from the sacred centre....
... and that is because you are simply not-here. And any of your futures in the wonderlands of star bursts are without-me. You are simply not-here...
... and I-am-not-with-you.
