January 2, 2017
I was telling Joelle I was almost finished reading her memoirs. I’d been reading them side by side, an odd way to read, sort of like an old two-columned Ashbery poem, or an obscure passage from Derrida’s Glas. Derrida was something else entirely. We’d see each other on the conference circuit, which I can no longer abide. He sent me a letter once, written in French. Which I treasured, of course, and lost. In some move, somewhere. But Joelle’s memoirs– I was telling her that I cannot touch them today. Not one more sharp pain. When reading is no longer a comfort, when writing isn’t possible, this recurring suffering. Go to the gym. I need to hit things. Perhaps I will come back to her twins tonight, I told her.