The interesting thing about my relationship with Chris is that we are very much textual. We don't spend a lot of time together when we're actually in the same city. We are much more communicative by e-mail and by letter than we are by phone or personal contact. I don't think we've ever had a long one-on-one conversation. There have always been other people around.

We are poetic and philosophical and arrogant in our written communications, but stilted and hesitant when speaking on the phone or in person. Perhaps we fear true interaction and the realization that we are not as cool as we think we are. Or maybe that's just me, since I can't steal Chris' author function and say that that's what he's really feeling.

There is supposedly an Oedipal relationship between the author and the text, that the text supplants, "kills," the author, and takes its place. I feel less like Oedipus here and more like the Wizard from the "Wizard of Oz," hiding behind a great whizzbang illusion of power, wittiness and deep thinking.

"Ignore that man behind the curtain!"

Writing is a substitute for presence. In this case it seems to be a better substitute, or at least one which both parties are more comfortable with.

Back to the Center
To the poem itself