Blooded Geometry
The Institute for Erotic Vertigo

Not a murder but a disappearance. The telephone ringing in the office. Outside the sun shines dimly, without commitment. Still, a cold wind blows. The office filled with smoke, cigarettes littering ashtrays, coughing. An address given.

“Blood everywhere. Windows and doors locked from the inside. Absence.”

To follow the path, to not find clues. Nothing, a hyper-awareness of nothing. To be sick. Never to give up. A page found, a blank page, several dirt marks left on the blank page. A love letter. Streaks. Physical evidence.
          Forever looking. This vagueness a guiding light.

Inside the bedroom there's an honesty to the phone call—blood, windows and doors locked from the inside, there is nothing but blood and an ordinary room. A level of disarray not at all surprising. No computer, no telephone, only clothes, books, papers, a typewriter. No evidence of the typewriter's use. A bed.
          Blood on the bed. No revelation. Expected. Par for the course. Almost idyllic in the absence. The strange angle the light leaves on the floor. Faux-marble tiles in the bathroom, dirty wood floor the rest of the studio. No broom, only dust. Black scuffs from the soles of leather shoes. No sign of struggle.

Not a murder but a forgetting. The forgetting room. Finally a page with words found, only two words. A sheet of paper at the bottom of a desk-drawer.


Not a murder but a beginning. Formerly, inside this room. Sex. Breathing. Eating. A life, surely. Outside the sun, setting, no progress. At the beginning, only THE END. Fold the piece of paper. Inside of the pocket for later.

Later, back in the office, the phone rings again: “Look again. Look again. Consider desire. Consider the books a catalog of the living. Check the phone book.” Ask for details, the line goes dead. Silent.
          In the garden of the apartment complex, walking a dirt path. Small obelisks of stone decorating, punctuating the dead leaves. Looking for what the obelisk marks. Nothing but space, the spatial construction of the garden. The wind colder, less sun. Time is passing and there is movement but there is nothing.

“Find a map, create the space.”

A voice.

“There's a degree of simplicity to the whole thing.”

A voice without a speaker.

“A pure geometry to a happening.”

Back in the studio-bedroom. A map drawn. Symmetry, except for a single point. At that point, a phone book. The phone book opened: pages removed. Several letters. The letters spell out a word. The word evokes a ritual. The ritual evokes a man. The man invokes the body of a man. A figure-head sprawling above the entire case. The word:


No, not really. Not the word at all. The word:


Yes. That's better.

“What did the man want to escape from?” chimed the first voice.
“Nothing, the nothingness,” another replied.

The mystery, then, had been solved. Through the air, through the air, through the air. Flight.

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