Derridian Quotes on Love

And when I call you my love, my love, is it you I am calling or my love? You, my love, is it you I thereby name, is it you that I address myself? I don't know if the question is well put, it frightens me. But I am sure that the answer, if it gets to me one day, will have come to me from you. You alone, my love, you alone will have known it.

. . . from the Hebrew he translates "tongue," if you can call it translating, as lip. They wanted to elevate themselves sublimely, in order to impose their lip, the unique lip, on the universe. Babel, the father, giving his name of confusion, multiplied the lips, and this is why we are seperated and that right now I am dying, dying to kiss you with our lip the only one I want to hear

Jacques Derrida, The Post Card: From Socrates to Freud and Beyond

Such beautiful writing. Such measured thought. Such honesty and beauty. Who would have thought Derrida was also a lover?

Procrastination

Procrastination is the title of this blog. And procrastination is exactly what I'm about. Sheesh. What a shit-awful day. I mean it. I can't stay happy to save my life. All these feelings of panic about school, GRE scores, and what not--Tonight, I would like to sleep. I want to go home and crawl in my bed and sleep. I can feel the tears already welling in my eyes--and for what flippin reason? What's wrong with me?

Leave this behind--just let it go.

So--oh fuck it. I'm just not in the mood to blog tonight.