i know little french, but this is one of my favorite sentences.
i prefer spivak's translation:there is nothing outside of the text
it is summer in austin, temperatures topping 100 daily. when not in business wear my torso is often frequented by tank tops with skinny straps.
this provokes questions from strangers about the "differance" scripted on my arm.
i am working on a pamphlet to hand out. for now it has been sufficient for me to say "it's neither a word nor a concept" as the inquisitive human being's eyes glaze over. on few occasions someone who encountered derrida in philosophy or literary theory (or, heavens! theology) recognizes the (non?)signifier inked on my arm (i am a self-deconstructing text) and there is a moment of solidarity.
there is more to say, but my time-for-$ exchange demands that i publish post (my lunch break is nearing that which is known as "over"). i can't particularly complain, as i really love the new project that i've been given.
perhaps i will publish my pamphlet once it's been created. it reminds me of the one bran created when he, stace and i all lived in a box in dallas in what one could begin to reference as "several years ago."
here's to the summer of 2000: taos and buehring-mcgee-caughey's summer of homemaking: hamburger helper (we all cringe now, yes), the beer fridge protected by ewan mcgregor, artichoke parties, revelry at irish bars on lower greenville, daves fargo, michigan and pretentious, bagels and salad dressing, stars and mountain tops and archaeology, writing and speaking and swimming, the aquarium, sparky, the eels and the dead guy -- and the young hispanic men downstairs who taught us the significance of a dime.
here's to differance, veins!, deconstruction and the impossible.