Psycho Commissioning Editor

Posted on April 14, 2009 in Uncategorized

I’m gasping for water as dry grass crunches underfoot. I walk down wide streets and see no-one out, steel and plastic cubes chock full of people, cars still warm in the parking lots. The days are strewn with sun and a sense of newness, a country like a tree full of ripe, low-hanging fruit with the dollar as a picking tool. 

The woman from behind the counter in Wendy’s gets into the one beat up car in sight. She’s Mexican, I think. A 40oz drink cup makes sense in the context but what of the subtext and did anyone read the pretext? I’ve been thinking about the text a lot. Il n’ya pas de hors texte, and all that.
The text is what we read, right? The scripts I read at work. The books I read for fun. Maybe I am creating a text of sorts as I go along. No wonder we’ve shifted so much of the discourse analysis textbook.
I’ve gotten an eReader of sorts, too.  On the plane over I sat reading The Time Machine on the Stanza app for the iTouch. It doesn’t have the digital ink of the more expensive custom built readers. It has some nice responsive touch screen page turning and can easily be tilted to a landscape format. I can take hundreds, or even thousands, of books with me on a trip. But there it is.  I won’t have time on that trip to read thousands of books. The number available just removes any focus that two books in my bag might have given me.
The script in the bag, heavy and unyielding, is an accusation. You’ve carried me this far. I’m heavy and you need to read me to make it worthwhile having brought me along.
I often find myself making these arguments with myself. In the American Business Park as we shift a few thousand dollars worth of books, I talk through a fair few proposals with people over Starbucks coffee and some Denver microbrews.  I buy some Camels but it’s too dry to smoke them. I leave two out of six Negra Modela untouched on the hotel room desk. It’s too dry for dark beer. The television channels are full of adverts and very long infomercials.

I walk around on the day I’m due to leave. I’d already taken in the overpass, arching over the Interstate. Cars rush past on a motorway that seems wider than M25. Huge cars abound, lazily changing lanes. None of the cramped mania of Greater London. I see the McDonalds arch in the distance and further back the Rocky Mountains. I don’t know much about mountains. I know that the red-eye plane back amounts to one long-ass journey. The air is wet and damp and for once I’m relieved by the colours and contrasts of East London as I get out off the Underground. What a shithole I mouth as I drag my case down the little hill that leads to the chippy and the market but I don’t mean it as much this time. I think the cherry blossoms in Washington last year taught me something I haven’t forgotten. Believe in the narrative at least. Il n’ya pas de hors texte.