Roy Pritchard stopped by last evening. He was on his way to sit with his still a while. I sit still and he sits with a still. Everybody finds a way to get by. I'd picked up a book at the secondhand book store. It was a book with the writing of Jacques Derrida.
"Whatcha reading there professor?"
THat's what Roy calls me. It's because I went to college. Roy never finished grade school. If I ever get stranded in the wildreness I hope Roy is with me not sdome real professor.
"Book by a French fellow who wrote about deconstruction."
"French fellow? Don't have much room for those Frenchy boys. Talkin all funny and the like. Met some during WW 2. Wee Wee Wee all the way home." Roy laughed and I joined him for a second.
"Construction you say. What's a French fellow have to say about construction. I worked construction with the TVA over at Fontana. Hard ass work."
"Not construction. De-construction."
"Same thing only faster and in a different direction. Deconstruction is hell on wheels with some dynamite. Put a hole in a concrete building big enough to fly an aeroplane through. Hell of a pop too."
"He was writing about deconstructing things like language. You know words. Take them apart and they have no real meaning. Nothing does."
"Well, that explains that French language for sure. Want me to drop off a taste of springtime when I come back from over the hollow?"
I wasn't about to turn down a small jar of clear spring drinking pleasure. "Sure. Take that any time."
"Might help with your reading. If nothiung more it'll make those words with no meaning go down easier. See ya tomorrow or so."
I went back to my study of Derrida. I shut the book and looked at the leaves busting out on the trees. Maybe I'll wait for Roy to bring me his art. It didn't need any deconstructing. Just sip it slow.