"When a name comes, it immediately says more than the name." Derrida

Sans Le Nom

A Page without a Name


Vol. I, No. 2                                               Conway, Arkansas, Nov. 28, 2004                                             Next Edition:  Jan. 10, 2004

Good Gear
Clementines are the perfect fruit for the infirm, but they're also great for travelers.  A cross between a regular orange and a mandarin, they have lots of vitamin C.  If you notice green patches on them, don't worry--that's their mandarin heritage--not a sign that they're under ripe.  They come in wooden crates and are kind of expensive, but their taste makes them out of this world.  They fit neatly in a pocket and are really easy to peel: perfect travel food.

Canoeing:  A Trailside Guide by Gordon Grant makes good bedside reading and is a good reference to take along on a paddle trip--as the title suggests.  Its focus is on technique, but it also offers a bit of advice on gear and canoe camping.  Plotting my next jaunt kept me thinking positive thoughts during my convalescence. 



"Nietzsche's Accountant" Nov. 28 2004

If you stopped by on the 28th expecting to see the promised update, then you know this month's issue is late.  Stuck (pinned, implicated, accused) with the 'flu, I spent a total of six days in prison (i.e. bed) and five among the paroled, dragging myself to classes and meetings because, well, the world continues on, and I've got to get back to it some time. 

Unfortunately, the adventuring I was hoping to do over the Thanksgiving break was the sort that we only undertake in our dreams.   No matter:  adventuring is adventuring, whether it occurs in the mind or in reality.  And my six days in bed resulted in a multitude of adventures, some of the febrile, nightmarish sort, and some of the strange sort that offered happy relief from daytime television.

For instance, I dreamed that I was Nietzsche's accountant.  He had scheduled with me to visit his residence so that I could check his books.  When I arrived at the address he gave me, I found that the great philosopher was living in the stairwell of an abandoned warehouse.  His "room," the very top of the staircase, had black walls, and he had graffitoed the command, "@#$! you, Plato," all over them in red and white spray paint.  In short, he had fully and completely become Zarathustra--his alter ego--the cave-dwelling hermit who only ventured to the outside world to lecture against the neo-Platonists. 

When I asked to see his ledgers, he took me to a drawer outside the warehouse. [Yes, the outside wall of the building had drawers in it; it was a dream after all].  Pulling it open, he grabbed the top plastic bag of several layers of plastic bags.  It contained, as did all the other bags, a computer keyboard, mouse, green and white dot-matrix ledger, and what looked like £50,000 in cash.  [Yes, British pounds.  I have no idea why]. I wondered aloud how I would use the keyboard and mouse without a monitor or CPU, to which Nietzsche replied, "I'm sure you'll figure it out." 

Well, I didn't.  I decided to begin my accounting with the cash, at least, until I could find a computer.  But, instead of adding up the denominations of the bills, I counted the number of times I saw the Queen's face.  After a little while of this futile accountancy, I said to Nietzsche, "I don't think I'm very good at counting money...", and there the dream ended.

Nietzsche's accountant.  There's a deeper meaning there, I'm sure.  But I'll leave it for you, the reader, to explore.  In general, my 'flu-crazed dreams were reassuring:  I mean what writer wants to wake up with the realization she should have been an accountant all along?  Still, I look forward to next month's issue when, barring another calamity,  I can write about my adventures--of the "rail" kind.  Stay tuned!

The ‘real world’ - an idea no longer of any use, not even a duty any longer - an idea grown useless, superfluous, consequently a refuted idea: let us abolish it! Broad daylight; breakfast; return of cheerfulness and bon sens; Plato blushes for shame; all free spirits run riot.             --Friedrich Nietzsche


Archived Issues

October 16, 2004


Below are some pictures I took last summer in Rush, Arkansas, a ghost town by the side of the Buffalo River.  It had its heyday during WWI when zinc was mined in the surrounding hills. 

Once archived, thumbnails will no longer link to the larger version of the picture.



All images and text copyright © 2004-2008 by Jennifer Deering.  All rights reserved.