My Dog Who Dies

I might start looking for a new dog now. Miles was such a lovely dog; can’t think of it now. Hard to handle the death of another. 

It's easier to handle my own. 

It's hard to handle perspective: the universe within which I and my dogs don’t matter; the world, within which idiots like Trump matter; my world, within which my dog who dies matters. 

On Reading Foucault Too Early in the Morning

I woke up this morning around three. Played my guitar (new song) for a while; then picked up my bedside copy of Foucault's Archeology of Knowledge. This is about the third time I've tried to read it. I finally have got his rhythm and actually like his writing—and his thinking, the origin of deconstruction: the absence beneath words, really, the indeterminacy of words—I wrote undeconstructively about this in one of my early articles, "The Yin and Yang of Genres" (cute title, huh?).

Went back to sleep thinking about the indeterminacy of life.

Two of his great lines: the occulation of discourse (I worked on that for about a half hour.)

"I am trying to define the blank space from which I speak." (I got that right away.)