The perfect storm and I clicked my heels together three times…

… and I ended up back in Oz.

Well, United Airlines are the most officially shithouse airlines I have ever flown in all my travels. On the leg from Chicago to San Fran I had to buy some dinner. Plus they don’t have individual tv screens for each passenger.

Some good news… I may have lined up another high profile interview for my thesis. This one is totally killer… I hope it happens!!

Well the apartment is great and I am glad to be back. I need to go down to the car and get it organised. Maybe after a sleep. I haven’t driven in nearly three months so it is a bit scary…

OH! Speaking of driving, my animal XD Ford “BILT2HAMR” Falcon seems like it is going to be ready to show off come the CSAA Conference in Fremantle. It is not really showing off material, but it will at least give my academic mates a better understanding of where I come from… haha!

Anyway, a well meaning (or not) customs officer came up to me at Sydney Airport this morning when I was waiting for my luggage (like in the pre-customs x-ray check area) and asked me a few questions. Nothing serious probably just seeing how I reacted to attention from authorities. Pffft… As if someone who wanted to do something bad would choose someone looking like me to do it (severely jet-lagged humanities PhD student who stinks like total shit or at least like his clothes have not been changed for a solid 24 hours or which 19 were in the air)… Plus I am normally pretty cool with police/whatevers as I have learnt the best response is not to try to act totally cool, but to act with a mild bit of hesitation as if you are a regular schmuck who doesn’t normally get pulled over by the police for speeding, and were very sorry for even providing the necessary conditions for the precipiation of a “Hey You!” Althusserian interpellation-event, differ to the imagined higher authority as it were… Anyway, this customs officer asked me where I had been. I said Sweden on exchange. WHat am I doing. Phd, blah blah blah. Then she asked what had I been doing in the US, visiting friends? And I said, sort of, I had come back really early, because I was visiting my girlfriend and discovered that the end of our relationship had been finalised for me. That was just my overly convoluted way of saying I went to the US to discover I had been dumped. It took her a few seconds to get the drift of what I was saying, and in the meantime I had to hunt down and control my reactionary emotions who were plotting my breakdown via a huge lump in my throat. I tried to turn away from looking anywhere and I was grateful when the customs officer finally realised, after what seemed like an eternity, that I was in a very fragile and emotionally exhausted state of mind.

It made me realise that the possibility of me ever having to go through that exact moment in a totally bizaar situation again, explaining to some perfect stranger events in my life that are accutely sad/embarrassing/turmultuous, is close to zero. I was experiencing and caught up in some weird kind of singularity that was definitively unravelling who I was at that moment. Bedraggled and smelly, tired and barely functioning, and all the other things that result from the weird intersection of being dumped by someone you trully love, travelling for nearly a day straight without a smoke, and coming home from being overseas for almost 2 1/2 months. Like in that movie where all those storms intersect and overlap multiplying each other. It wasn’t ‘bare life’, it was ‘bare Glen’… caught in an emotional life-support raft in the calm eye of the perfect storm. It is hard to express how alive I felt at that exact moment.

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”.