You talk about Derrida, explaining the plot of a play. One that you’ll write. And this 5 minute, joke free, impassioned as prosthetically enhanced Matt Damon, conversation segment, catches my breath like a hoover in a corner; unexpectedly. And what I wanted to say evaporates like moisture right out of roast chicken at hot heat in the hundredth minute. I stutter and say that you’ve ruined me and you apologise like it’s an actual thing: ruining me. Like you didn’t do that already and know that you did and it wasn’t philosophy doing it then. Just you, years ago.
Your voice turns on like a lectureship and I’m equal in these minutes, in the middle of them, frittering grip on my usually ready ripostes. Even if your references aren’t things I’ve read (are they ever?), I take like communion or delicacies from places I’ve not been. I’m no lapsed Catholic. Or that’s exactly it; I’m lapsing, constantly, relapsing, like an alcoholic or chronically ill person unsure when attacks happen. And this is chaos, this all is. Purgatory, like a Comic-Con queue in winter: 4 hours to see an old Doctor Who, and even then, no guarantee the photo opportunity’s open, is there?
We’re picking over language. Less is lost, than was. And I like you best on the phone, as you light cigarettes, make coffee and RT bad quotes by Albert Einstein. Someone on Twitter asks where you are – they’ve not seen you online in a while. My heart beating like central heating, I head-perfect an inscription for you. But language is fallible. Out of context. And that’s the point. Pick an errant sentence, tell me what it means. Don’t misinterpret me yet.