Pigtailed Potstickers

While a white, fluffy animal and the University's acceptance letter arrived at a time last year to guarantee that nothing would go to the dogs, last night there were no fireworks in a stripped Chinatown.

Instead, there was a jazz trumpeter whose timing was lost to the drum and bass beats on the second storey, and earlier in the day, a woman beside us who wept so hard during The Lives of Others that she shook the entire row. But most of all there was a man who used to, back in those days, skateboard all through the docks along historic downtown. Now he helps build houses and as for me, I shall have nothing to say about spatiality. And it's good that way for now. No carpark-symptomale, no defense of theory: nothing wasted on speculating who's going to be the first to stop reading. Yet lest anything threatens to be "new" about this,

I employ these words, I admit, with a glance toward the business of childbearing -- but also with a glance toward those who, in a company from which I do not exclude myself, turn their eyes away in the face of the as yet unnameable which is proclaiming itself and which can do so, as in necessary whenever a birth is in the offing, only under the species of the non-species, in the formless, mute, infant, and terrifying form of monstrosity (Derrida, "Structure, Sign and Play" 265).

Afterthought from the modest midwife: "I believe that the risk of sterility and of sterilization has always been the price of lucidity" ("Answer to Goldmann" 271).