Reading Derrida From The Gutter

Siren's Song

How long has it been? It's a blur. But time is beginning again -- to fill the space with a more concrete form. I can feel my cheek smashing against the curb, and the ghost of dirt water left behind from the gutter.

Something grabbed me and pulled me under, but it's not something you can anthropomorphize. It loses its power in translation, exists only in the bellowing frequency. So much the worse.

But nothing I'm writing makes sense anymore, not even to me. I'm starting to develop different senses. It must be nearly through circulating -- the stuff. I can't even admit its name, otherwise I forfeit a degree of guilt.

They say I was raving about somewhere other pulling me under with huge tendrils. The cops were on the verge of arresting me, but the doctor convinced them to let him take me instead. I don't know why he was there. One of those right place right time things I guess, but I'm assuming he told them about the new program.

It's one of those alternative rehabilitation programs, something involving a lot of isolation, until I reach a point called the confrontation period, where I get to come face to face with my demons. What do I have to hide, where the filth collects and gets funneled through on some mucus stream?

I'm not exactly sure where I'm at or what it's all about, but I'm desperate. I'm going to get it out of my system or die trying. I'm more sick of hurting people. And there's nothing out there for me.

He's a good man, the doctor, and I have every reason to believe them. Besides, what choice do I have? The state is no good, and I can't afford traditional rehab. This program is still being tested, so they're letting me in for free, say I'm the perfect candidate. Whatever that means. But I can't pass it up. It's probably my last chance.

A television always on in the background hangs in the corner overhead, pulsating effervescent time. I nod rhythmically in and out of sleep, my dreams keeping beat with whatever is playing, not only to curve it, but also to help with the monotony. It meets the dialogue, while visuals splay over a canvas before my eyes somewhere other. Makes for interesting dreams, or at least a better world than this one.

Some guy watches his neighbor through a peephole, the flesh dripping from his naked torso in candlestick fashion while he masturbates -- the sound of his hand slurping back and forth suctions his cock. And something keeps repeating subliminally, 'Ernie. Ernie,' massaging his scalp with throbbing snakeskin fingers that flick their tongues at his brain -- flicking. 'That's right.' Then it strikes, 'now kill the bitch!'

I just hope they have satellite.

But I'm happy here for now. It's dark -- and cool. The kind of atmosphere needed to foot such an event. I'll stay on a bit longer to sort things out.

And tabacco. Thank God. I guess quitting smoking isn't part of rehabilitation. I roll it into a ball and load my pipe.

A tall figure passes something through an opening. I open my hand. Two red orbs rest in the palm. Squeezing it shut again -- tight -- I feel for a moment their soft edges pressing against rippling flesh.

Everything is kept sparse. It's suppose to keep me focused. I'm not sure who told me that.

There's a book locked in here with me too, however, some drivel called 'Clipped Wings' by one Dr. Syd Eaton. Maybe that's where I heard about keeping things sparse. It discusses how mathematics, science, and the like, because they're birthed from within this particular framework, the only thing they can do is reinforce our cell when they're used objectively.

'He might dissect, anatomize, and give names; but, not to speak of a final cause, causes in their secondary and tertiary grades were utterly unknown to him.'

My cell.

I guess it's a kind of an updated version of Plato's 'Allegory of the Cave,' the idea being that when you internalize things like facts, they take on an ectoplasm quality -- kind of like a map, but one you have to feel your way around. It becomes a frame of reference that you can use for exploring somewhere other.

I run my finger in a straight line up and down between my eyes, repeating 'let go. Time is an abstraction here. There is nowhere I need to be -- NO ONE I need to be. I allow the unknown to thrive. Its current flows through my wiry veins like rivers connecting to meet somewhere other.' Over and over again.

Strange looking symbols flicker almost subliminally on the screen in front of me like an electric storm. No matter where I turn my focus, I can't pinpoint it. It's always just outside my peripheral. And they flicker in such a way, and with such frequency, that they suppress my cell, exposing it on the subatomic level.

They're hot. They burn. I scratch the bony ridge of my cheek, just below the eye. A small drop of blood begins to form.

Someone, or something, vaporizes from between the cracks and shrouds me.

The space grows enormously and absorbs all echoes and background noise. The darkness highlights a monolithic door, and I know there's a notch in the upper half of it, center, like it's always been buried in my subconscious. I grope and find two grooves for two small stones. Placing the red orbs, I feel a vibration -- the muted click.

I slowly open the mouth of the door. A siren bellows from its maw, engulfing me -- swallowing.

The mold grows inside, poisoning everything -- words wrapped in toxic breath.