It starts with an empty chair and turns out to be the story of the person who sits in it: the French windows leading to a small balcony were open, and the dim light shone out into the grey afternoon. It, i.e. the light, presented an options problem, falling as it did on a tree. Here is a statement of that problem, poetically: a stairwell, a door, then outside facing east (December 12, 3:35 pm): thirty-seven black crows take wing from five winter branches. If they had been evenly distributed over the branches, there would have been approximately seven crows per branch. But there were not, and onward I walked through the snow to another room which was another palace of memory, using the method of loci. This second room had no windows and smelt of cigars. A Spanish leather screen divided the storage from the near end, where the walls were flock-papered and the pictures must have come from Georgian brothels. I noticed: the writing table must be worht thousands. It's top drawer was empty except for stationery and a red plastic ring binder full of poetry, poetry which proved the hand is a natural corollary of the script: from its blotchy origins in Merovingian cursive to the intimations of angularity in Protogothica.
http://sites.google.com/site/pythagoreanmetronome/
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