antipopper

I’m in the local library, down the road from what used to be my home, but is now an office of sorts for me. I work in four locations now, none of them really central enough to be a base. I’ll be doing design work or writing a paper while simultaneously transferring ancient films by militant metalworkers to DVD, or passing notes to a client in Jerusalem while supervising a new media drop-in centre, i.e. my weird version of “youth work”. This also means I usually lug little forests of Continental philosophy around with me to each location.

(The latter has its advantages; yesterday I showed one of my brilliant Storybox kids a copy of Blanchot’s The Writing of the Disaster, upon which we had a short discussion about how we continue to write when certain things defy representation. Although I must say that I obviously learn an infinite amount more about such stuff from these out-of-control teenagers than Maurice Fucking Blanchot.)

Okay, what I’m really doing is talking up the fact that I’m stuck in the library because I forgot my fucking keys. All right? :)