we must investigate the curse



A found manuscript, left on my doorstep: without images. it was almost too burned to read. but i had a team of forensic specialists reconstitute it. they did a fine job. so the following transcript is as close to ‘authentic’ as possible. no one on the team found a single flaw. but one: who has proof of authenticity? or, of those who put voice to it?

detective: m.d. danjou

... Blog » Blog Archive » Here’s a Story of a Man Who Destroyed Books








Lemmas of Ultimate Difference

(in which differences will be put to the test)


In like manner the first ratio of nascent quantities is that with which they begin to be. And the first or last sum is that with which they begin and cease to be… And there is the like limit in all quanitites and proportions that begin and cease to be. And since such limits are certain and definite, to determine the same is a problem strictly geometrical. But whatever is geometrical we may use in determining and demonstrating any other thing that is also geometrical.

Isaac Newton


The interdiscipliary concept, Logos, meant both word and ratio, both oration, the way in which thoughts are expressed, and ratio, the demonstratoin through sequenced propositions of the thought itself. Rhetoric and mathematical thinking are inseparable. By extension, word and number are identified–both designate relationship. Any shift away from the objects themselves toward the relation between them results in idealism. For idealism is the inevitable consequence of the hegemony of relationship. It possesses as its deepest secret, the most subtle form of nihilism. Ask yourself, Is it the hand, or is it hands? The former constitutes difference unassailable by the homogenizing influences of the same. My hand AB is the given, and is never reducible to the class of all hands. Once the realm of the specific has been entered, it can never be left. It is this immersion in the empirical that is the generative force of all aesthemata, of all differences, all uniqueness.

M. D. D’Anjou


By aesthetic, I do not mean a theory of beauty or a theory of art. The former would lead us down the path of pleasure, both optical and emotional. The later through a domain of methodologies and epistomologies. The aesthemata in the ancient sense were experiences suffered. They were not far removed from phenomena, the sudden, immediate confrontation with foreigness, with otherness, with the natural world gathered to crescendo in an epiphany of alieness, with something of the quality of contradiction and barbarousness. Alienation gathered at the very threshold of perception, imminent, stimulating the reflexes to peak readiness. And at this threshold arrives the conceptual to judge the state of reaction.

M. D. D’Anjou


“…philosophers keep filling in a definite fundamental scheme of possible philosophies. Under an invisible spell they always revolve once more in the same orbit; however independent of each other they may feel themselves with their critical or systematic wills, something within them leads them, something impels them in a definite order, one after the other – to wit, the innate systematic structure and relationship of their concepts. Their thinking is, in fact, far less a discovery than a recognition, a remembering, a return and a homecoming to a remote, primordial, and inclusive household of the soul, out of which those concepts grew originally: philosophizing is to this extent a kind of atavism of the highest order.”



“It use to be said that, as all abstract words were originally concrete metaphors, something of the latter will always adhere to the word through all its semantic history. This view is discredited now, but it still has much truth in it…. But it looks as though abstract words and ideas were on loan… from a latent concrete formulation which is to be found… in the structure of the argument into which the word is fitted.”

Northrop Fry




Book One

Book Two



Number – one oneone oneoneone oneoneoneone oneoneoneoneone oneoneoneoneoneone oneoneoneoneoneoneone oneoneoneoneoneoneoneone oneoneoneoneoneoneoneoneone none nonenone nonenonenone nonenonenonenone nonenonenonenonenone nonenonenonenonenonenone nonenonenonenonenonenonenone nonenonenonenonenonenonenonenone nonenonenonenonenonenonenonenonenone



Word – aeiou : bcdfghjklmnpqrstvwxyz :: wh ur d : w o r d :: mouthear : braineye :: hand : grasp :: fingers : digits :: field : Nileedge :: flood : Sirius :: boundarystone : compass :: Horos : Seth :: Oedipus : Tiresius :: poet : republic :: art : science :: logos : logos



Sentience – a physiological vector simultaneously moving through perception and language, with and without correspondance between them — i.e., when anunciated by the reader — AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRHAAAAAGuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuement



Sentence – sumbolon moving through western currents- coins or bones are broken in two parts along an unpredictable divide, the break the proof the holders of the halves are the partners of a contract – even if the holders are not the original partners — i.e., Ronald Regan with Herbert Kohl laid a wreath at the the Bitburg SS Cemetary, and five months latter Nakasone paid tribute at the National Yasukuni Shrine where WWII war dead are commemorated, signing the registry with his official title.



Sense – attempts (versucher) to determine, within the field of sentience, and in the form of sentences, either spoken or written, correspondances between fragment of the sumbolon — i.e., The event that Homer relates and I paraphrase: “It was with a large boundary stone (horos) fitted into her chastity belt now slung like a slingshot, that Athene felled Ares falling with the impact of ten Hectors onto the plane of Troy.”; corresponds perfectly with Freud’s failure to recognize Tiresius, seer because he lived seven years a man, seven a woman, as the voice, Oedipus heard but couldn’t hear, of the Sphinx returned.



Book Three


Scalar Notions: [Note: formatting isn’t worked out yet….]



1] Everything that exists is physical.

The crush of infinitessimals crushes common sense.

2] Things which do not exist may have effect.

Apperception finds no imprint among the diminishing bands of its spectral lines.

3] Since number exists, it is physical.

I a similitude subtends not 1 but an infinite regress of partitioning cells.

4] Number exists in all things.

Billions of years bred atmosphere from microbial mud at the edge of continental shelves.

5] Number is not quantity.

Sirius burns through dusk as the Nile floods, and floods when scribes have gathered the yearmark of Re.

6] If number is not a quantity, it must be a quality.

Days undivided in the blueness of youth are shorter than days divided in the redness of youth.

7] Number is a quality of a thing.

Age seasons age, distance cleaves distance, leaves shadow leaves.

8] Number is that quality of a thing that determines its relations of quantity.

From snow to water edge stepping stones gather footfalls between views incommensurable with views.

9] A relation of quantity is a quality of a things expressed as a ratio of magnitude.

How high the heat of fortune that fractures the turtle’s back; or, how great the force that breaks the bones of symbols?

10] A ratio of magnitudes gathers magnitudes together in forms of comparison.

Every tortoise is an avatar, each a great eclipse that stays the hare.

11] The form of a comparison is determined by the qualities of the quantities compared.

No arrow in flight changed place until the sun replaced the earth, until the earth became a moon, until the moon, earth.

12] Since the quality of all quantities is value, a comparison of magnitudes is a comparison of values.

London knew no harsher judge than Newton, panned for gold in blood.

13] The form of a comparison of magnitude is therefore determined by the comparison of values.

Mechanical Fates trace, thread, bind minstral caesurae to place.

14] Values are either scalar or vector.

Coal dust settled heavy on the commons.

15] A scalar is a value without unit or direction; it is a pure magnitude.

Deeds that cast themselves in heroic shapes of inertia, generate the orbit.

16] A thing without unit or direction is without quality, and therefore cannot be a number.

Watch the surface of a perfect sphere revolving in a perfect dark and hold its volume as the surface vanishes in a flash of phospherescence.

17] A scalar is therefore not a number.

I is that which measures all things, endlessly.

18] A scalar either must be quantity, or does not exist.

Except itself.

19] Quantity without unit or direction does not exist.

Without forgetting, we’d die of being whole.

20] Therefore a scalar value as pure magnitude does not exist.

I the surface of the sphere that vanished.

21] A scalar value has effect only as thought.

Empty orbits decay as a sick sun feeds itself itself.

22] A vector is a value with unit and direction; it is a value relative to its trajectory in spacetime.

23] A comparison of values must compare like forms; that is, scalar to scalar or vector to vector.

23] A scalar value is value only as thought.

24] A vector value is value as thought and as physically existant.

25] Scalar value is the origin of metaphysics.

26] Metaphysics are effective, nonexistant ideologies.

27] A vector value consists of two components; a thought component and a physical component.

28] Both vector components are coextensive, co-creating and inseparable.

29] The form of comparison of vector values is determined as a resolution of the vector components.

30] Vector value is the origin of aesthetic empiricism.

31] Aesthetic empiricism proves that life is multiply asymptotic.



Book Four


Ours is a geometrical time breadthless bounded unbound aspiring as air grows still thinner rarer than breadthless without a single tangent the last ray the last sun vanishing to oceanic edge pacific rolling massively over into a darkening emptying orbit quod est faciendum



Derive this passage always things smaller than that behind which we hide below deck enraptured threshed and diminished similitudes called just edged by right lines against which increments of immense infinitestimals adjust measure of revolutions of the margins splitting casting out law the excluded middle



Ford the river in the spring thaw, ice threatens a clear extinction – burial in silt of rotten log run from the north for centuries. Trunks cut from the deepest tangle of forest, matted hair clinging to a clay and granite soil itself stripped by glacial flows. Impervious to all but the movements of the smallest animals shaped in the lichen coated briar. Silt is just another of its forms stirred up in the torrent. So one subject parts from another. One frozen on the bank looking after the disappearance of the other. Unable to know of its arrival in another place. Unable, therefore, to move away from the shore. Ice floes slowly recede as the rivers empty the lake tundra and empty the north of silence. Against this mute resistence – watch the other go. White skin of the hand grasping a sodden log, red skin of the hand exposed to a sun, wrapped in a forest green silhoutte – evanesces at the vanishing point against the other side. Left in the time of a single frigid breath. Eyes close that the last memory remain glacial. Grey and trecherous. Clenched ice an angony of hot and frozen flesh.



The stray eye gathers another world that has no correlate in that gathered by the eye that walks the line we’ve no singular gaze between us one cannot map the other calm a clear volume a crystal vase large enough to inhabit to possess the expanding light of stars clear of all matter with potential to interfere until the wind begins to blow to curl about calf about thigh air brief and thin as vanishing dream breath warm in the genitals


Here the opaque domain beautiful mains to all else that strokes singular fingers tensors at full strength the mostleast magnificent binding fleshspace in the timeflesh not grasping but gripping jugular not physiological debate or circulatory examen but lust deathsex blood to blood, Blood we’ve none but prophylactic extradition as the law divides all difference so much for synthetic elation the ecstacy of differ a (o)nce that cheap imitation that figurative contour con tours ours there where the skin slips under her slip slip his tongue slips sails from the slip lip lashandon’tgivemenowhip Homes



Imagining the other debriefing may be thought when thought goes native when the world is the case wilds of the ambush moist in its surges in your hands and the silk black and tied tightly more to to to force gently the caress that takes you in lips and breaks wood spintering while the palms sever bonds and the cock or or oars cleave the stream the ripening waves flash upon flesh waves upon crests heating approaching sliding under there the potential for more of meaning fact and the world fact filling the world robust against a vaporous ideal this is this is fact this the physical the anchor the logical rising descending prey against prey




Book Five


In the hunt absence is compressed denser than grief and anger is drawn.


bare feet sear pavement in midday blaze boredom is dense recognized in stars that wave and then the procession of cages sweat matted fur sickness in pale eyes sick skin peeling back the rage all that they’ll never have beyond the bars man or child’s throat either the broken pulse the neck heart muscle blood congeals between canines just one lunge lust for the gathering spring for the endless drink the mudhole thrist the pack the charge attack fresh kill so go days and days lover father teacher son mother cousin sister friend fucked and fucked face after face after face the same crowd the same crowd crowed cowed same


I wish to make something central, ballast in the hollow of a barren night, without star, moon dark, simple grace whirling round the gravity of mistrust no levity withstands the beauty poisoned air above the trees where the great owl glides spreading silence with its wings it sees the darkest movements race to escape rush to be fed



Time is not continuous plunge and surface plunge again resurface less longing to float cradled by waves lost where waters are warm come to what is only fragment of rock island for a foot until the next wave stronger splinters trees shattered glass awash shrapnel moments able to steel the liquidity of moments sometimes recall sometimes lose flee through darkened passages below the surface our migrant ways shabby mendicants call to ourselves reverberations in tunnels repeat and bring no closer what it is desperate to retrieve we bolt behind a stainless steel door cold fingers clench an expanding warm breath at the edge and over one cannot recount the fortunes how far into the earth can one push one’s hand at its limit what will it reach what could it possibly grasp



Book Six


wood smell comes from us off the slope of fallen snow out of shrill air the blinding glare increases awe at such lack such extreme quick cutting excess what cannot be felt positions us far across the stone room away from ourselves thawing by the wood burning what could what must also be ourselves crumbling there into spark and ash settling heavier than it ought into it the denser memory sinks there to keep a coal



fuel dry lichen coating the log cast and cast again cast against the rock the glacier rock shore far far up in the north bleached where bleaching is a decade high summer rays pitched low razor breeze and the lips peel press pert peck still an adolescent attempting to breath hips in the snow age turns cold the lake comes up wind the size of cumulus overtaking the loss the excision of joy lips part the numb days crest the grey grey grey flat palm mauls the cheek and the number without limit fractures granules glass slivers fish flash driftwood dead in the way the lakes expand and land turns down bog and the bitter roots rivulets and leeches and brazen biting gorse mud and the thorns stick too deep to remove



Night where the hawks cross the gate, above waters sweeping in the rays of a low full moon, harvest in the brilliance of a sun that conjures tides still higher. Unseen, the pull is doubled – pressure of one flat hand against an abdomen and another against the earthern cradle between shoulder blades – bay waters packed and backing up the river, deepening its salt. Hawks waver, frail at the edges of currents in the continental sweep toward a darkening horizon. Will the seam allow passage? Sudden freefall into other worlds accompanied by nausea – each fall a flaw from which we stand to lose so much.





point no parts to play ideal certainty where ever it lies unanswered unansweredable Pythian eye brilliant among shearing of days treasure of the Delian Nile rising source is arrival no point of departure blind Horus marked grain horos boundary stone turned to in an unmirrored gaze mirrored Tiresean hope in Tiresean drag lost in the Oedipal divide unable to be bridged hangs history quod est demonstrandum




Book Seven


The utter falseness of all belief in meaning has caused cataclisms before before the shadowy metaphors we name the images shifting as we shift before the mirror-screen but in our own absence that constant substraction from what we are our spines recede or protrude in skin traces that mask the structure upon which we stand, and never bear witness to what we know or never can.



At the base of my skull I fear to desribe these rhythmic vibrations pulses of stress that seem to bode a cataclism approaching when I’ll drop dead of some unknown havoc working in the dark curvatures of my spine they are what I write and too often live the slightest oppressions that lead to the exclusion of all well-being here in the center of my body is the blackest impenetrable knot undecipherable mute a gathering of dark cloud in that night sky that overhangs



It’s as some say when they say that even the softest sufferings never heal we’re all primitive in the wounds we take pride in and mark the points of entry like the fiercest warrior always ready to bare the softest tissue to searing instruments each cry cauterizes memory in its place the echos the terrible cries rooms full of bird flapping and panicing eyes desparate to find the way free through a cloudless sky and those that have no regrets they’ve been to the edge of the savage land and know the bristles that tear the air they’re the faithful ones those that never went down that grow old that tell this story that wager suffering is the grist of loving labor they cast the stone to the well and have no need of the wish such is the luxury of torments relieved in the dark waters the stone settles mute though not silent cold and growing still colder no response when the warm breeze ripples the water skin never a taut drum but the fragile wave in a diminishing light only the near grass grows



my cry a man’s never written never dropped onto the tongue dries suspended silence against us threatens We’ve sounds hung on diverging airs filled with shadow spread the thinning dark





like uranium you must be enriched before you become lethal



Book Eight



Ascetic fears never let you bathe. Mouths full of salt and sand threaten instant extinction. They signal return to those that take too much, stripping off skin. Or to those who bask only in their own masking, grafts for the swelling tongue. Bouganvilla chokes the jasmine that chokes the rose. Breath seeps through space tiered, geometric, rowed, crushed. The wind is tidy, the tempers unruly. Expect me. There. Between each chime. The absense that gathers the dust, the thorns, the barking of dogs. Each bark a memory, a coyote at the base of a canyon millenia-deep in the strata. In that echo – dusk of the audible, a pinon so brisk it sears. How deep can it run? In their grasp, fingers tighten the tenderness, against the pulse of an unmet object – the cry that over the valley, expands, and then settles to feed among lichen inching along granite. Call for me, in a famine. Between my lips there’s succour. Among the whitest of teeth. Bared for you. Flesh, raw as the uncut grass, thick for sinking in. Charm and the wit of nails set to test the limits. Embrace in coarse beds of hair, black against pink skin – languid, and the eye, closed about its dream, felt at the tangent of a pressing fingerprint. Here we are. Light of the darkened door. Floor seams beyond it. Converging in darkness. Trace of the imprint. Stored as the color of the words of fury. Lips able to drink it in. Without measure.



Parts of speech leave the whole unimagined by the presumption to say something. To be sleepless unwillingly. Vacant, the night. The undreamt restless over a cool memory – a vapor, the dread diminishes as it draws, drags, on. Forgetting, we go there. There was no choice. Yet, and each unprovoked thought the bird with clipped wings. Still, it desires. Its song the canyon. The hardest softest walls of each palm and tips of the fingers lighting the line along the lip. Where, we might part. Or, bind. Leave the trail. We might. Would we? Gripping, shattering, the sledge. Close, eyes. Darken, the weight, put the birds down. About to.



Loss condenses on glass, film slow to filter light and quick to take hold of the house held exposed against its will a face unable to conceal what it’s unable to bear it creeps along the floor boards relentless the climb downward from the uppermost stories a slow cascade but in vehemence a similar assault summer or fall the temperatures are cold heat pumped out slow arc the fists folds slow drum beat beats against the temples no entrance no exit no outside the inner lining of language fascia that wraps the dark voids of synapse of holes of joints where movement bends always takes an unsuspected turn hovers and without continuity breaks off begins again in another member slow breath slows sates




Free associations we now could know, if the pieces were gathered, were never then, are never now free. Nor, therefore was verse. URRR. Free then yet again ran aground. Grounds what could have been the grounds how could this possibly be grounded grrrrrr or ground around about that time round and round we go sybil again yet still civil matted hair in the ground cave shelter against the loss of millenia when the moon was to be counted on apparition in the night in flight voice voices the airy mulititudes before bronze the stone and after the iron willed cutting wide swathes evenly even in the trees and then the rivers left behind drywetbeds orwetdrybeds rideride and rideon on andon we’ve knowledge there that ledge there hide it round as apples stash it never to decay never again to be wished away hides oh the hides we’ve clothed ourselve in to stay alive even evenly lying upon ouselves deliberately to be missed to be breadthless too easily taken for ought else but the fertile rows cornwheatgrass seeds cast



Book Nine



why why fast at the sand track rasp and the large gap the slips the breaks in the road sentences lopped off fragmented stories stories that skew veer swoop duck and make a break you’ve the last line the conored ox the box conor the dive the dive the lack nailed and fast hammered always desire for the other slippage slippage ship shambles and the ashes cans banging on the grate fridgid quest for another



How does one stay alive? Gone with god and the soil refined from granite veins. Yet it no longer bears me up nor any resemblance from which I feed. With god, the human hosts explode. I no longer love them. Let them go. I watch them, and me, recede beyond the water’s edge. They, I among them, turn to look a last time, hover in the stillest moment above the quavering sea, without a trace of grief, vanish. When I turn to go, will I see? That I’ve become the crime. A natural genocide. How I long in this breech being no other percieving none to close my eyes



Here where all colorfades to an opaque translucence, barely a contour or taste of another climate vanish to a point linger between breaths and go dark drawn back to impossible density fuel for another appetite vaguely familiar when it comes deja vu in its slippage water over tongue without scent or significant trace adder gathering in ineffable silence in an earth covered in snow stillness coil of solidity flake against ice



In the cusp between us, poetry vanishes. We are dry bone, brittle, hair fractures widening into bitter nights. Even the coldest of northern snows, ice of the tundra, would warm us. Mean in the least of times, full in the comforts of excess – we’ve lost the sentience necessary to split the hard core of accumulated duress. We weigh in at dusk, each step toward the north reverberates among the ice roots of the arctic. We’ll miss the thaw – crawl along the borders of diminishing light, not hoping for its return, but cherishing each incremental loss of its strength, wanting the faintess flicker, its finality, to go pitch black, its absence then the shadow accompanying our weakening presence. Beyond the edge of darkness, what will come after us?



Pulse pulse chipsiliconchip not beat beat beating but a digital rhythm reverberreverberreverber remembering cleanly clean clean clean cleaning cleansing of grace tones over without overtones over over over and over tones dense dead silences between beats in these interstices history ends and the fragment the moment becomes autonomous coming to be a more coldly bold Automaton




we’ve not gotten the call backs to the crowding at the river’s edge seers of the passing though we’ve charge for the telling we’re the unheard the unheard of shaped like the X-brace uncompressed tense bloodline vectors antinomies repelling the sheared cliffs’ faces facing off we’re strained thin thinner thinning the breadthless welds of the mending the minding bending again to terse dimensions confrontive bondage lashes in the close space closing in your face differences expanding explosive more matters the closer they approach haptic as the eyes close no thought to pry them open darkening contradiction opening again space of the non-law not law where the hand rests only if hand moves flesh lust red dusk curve sweeping out another time this time body subtended



Book Ten



Quiet in the green streets dressed down further further from beating asyndetons paralysis there sets in steps in step with each further going down break crack there in the back’s swelled lumbar of each night the hate reigns white hot in the black and blackening valleys the poor views the hell holes those OHzones where the blood thins the dead die the dead live home to us all as the skin sheds the glare bares down bears grudge upon grudge the hate heaps the vendetta creeps toward the last few lying fagged tied tagged shelved with the shit shovel





cut the word card deck deep and the chances are chances that meaning can be reached steep cuts of the number line trancendentally deep never repeating in the never ending time what could never be said more simply never the death limit if the limit’s well defined only if the approach is fleshed out fed well always another smaller than ever before imagined such slow oppression goes unnoticed until the quality has vanished all differences to zero slower and slowing but still hotter heat rising dangers of cold blood still the surroundings stilling as it makes noise blue respiring as the line’s cut cell sets empty red rushing out of time






Clearly nothing matters neither poetry nor mathesis negations or affirmations we are the thing undecided refusing to be named passed over in silence in silences slightly intensifying sound a fraction more fallow denser inaudibly shifting in sonorous fields heat cupped in the palm as fingers curl about the ear an uncommonly common practice as the age ages pulse beat by pulse hope by hope diminishing in a world ever smaller ever rarer


we must investigate the curse

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