Single again…

Samantha ended our relationship yesterday morning. I am sad.

I certainly would not have come to the US if I had known this was going to happen. This must be one of the most expensive dumpings of all time. I am trying to find out if I can leave on a much earlier flight, if not I will need to stay in a hotel, as Sam has given me until tomorrow to ‘sort something out’. She has offered to pay for my flight home, but at about $3200 USD I couldn’t let her pay that much money. I have found a hotel that has rooms at $30 USD per night and I may have to use the money my parents gave me to buy Sam a Christmas present from them for the hotel.

The only problem is that I have a shitload of work to do and I do not really have access to a computer in Pittsburgh if I am not at Sam’s place. So if I do move into a hotel I am going to have to, for example, write out my CSAA conference paper by hand (CSAA conference coming up in early December). I am going to try to finish transcribing the Getaway in Stockholm interview this evening as that has to be sent off to the dudes at Autosalon magazine and it needs to be typed/emailed. I am glad I function well in times of crisis; it is a skill learnt through all those times I have blown up or destroyed engines/transmissions or crashed my cars. If I am not dead, then I have nothing to worry about, because life goes on and all that bullshit.

Sam and I just became too different from what the other was expecting (allegedly). I am far too ‘strong’ a person (allegedly). She says she still wants to love me, but not in an intimate way; that we are ‘best friends’. I say fuck that, I reckon she doesn’t want to be with me anymore just because I have put on weight and am now fat. Fair enough.

After I have left Pittsburgh I am never going to see her again. You see, I still have a place in my heart for her, except now instead of filling with love everytime we speak or see each other, it fills with a void of excruciating pain. I love with incredible devotion, but I am equally intense with all my other feelings, and in the context of my relationship with Sam that intensity needs to be depotentialised for my own sanity.

Goodluck to her in the future.

Ode to my beautiful Samantha…

We met at a franchised coffee house,
During breaks in our working days.
Hiding behind a book and an academic long black,
She wanted peace and quiet,
Which I disrupted with a clumsy interjection.

“Post-colonial theory, eh?”

To which she replied with a look of who-is-this-boy?

Exchanges of over-the-counter coffees,
And over the counter accounts
That she thought of dubious accountability.
I had previously regailed her with stories,
Of drunken toga parties, illicit late-night trists,
And later-night drag racing in the back streets of Fremantle.

Proud and proper in my service industry,
service-station, ready-to-serve-you uniform,
She replied with a look that said out-of-service;
I must have smelt like cigarettes, petrol,
And seven hours of a ten hour shift completed.

“I have a few readings about identity that I won’t need anymore.”

A mere curiousity or a monstrosity?
Delicate questions running through her delicate person.
We caught each other’s eye,
As if we were criminal to the other’s policing.
Love isn’t an interpellation,
But a feedback loop of depthless intensity,
A polarity between a tension tensing.


Word. She spoke. ‘Oh’ means nothing,
Besides as an order-word, ordering the event,
To modulate, like the soft flutter in a nervous voice,
From an embarrassing soliloquy,
To a becoming-dialogue of fragile futurity.

And without intending to,
Without helping it,
Without knowing how,
We still speak,
To each other’s heart.

Jacques Derrida dies at the age of 74

I feel sad.

Here are some links:,,2-13-1443_1602574,00.html

It reminds me of the joke in the movie Adaptation.

Donald Kaufman: Listen, I need a cool way to kill people. Don’t worry, for my script.
Charlie Kaufman: I don’t know that kind of stuff.
Donald Kaufman: Oh, come on, man, please? You’re the genius.
Charlie Kaufman: Here you go. The killer’s a literature professor. He cuts off little chunks from his victims’ bodies until they die. He calls himself “the deconstructionist”.