Nucleosynthesize a Home

On pg 373 “cleosynthesis” is a partially-obscured Nu-cleosynthesis. Zampan•’s definition of this word, other than its typo (which may or may not be a detractor), is pretty much coreect. It’s that moment where everything in the universe was compressed so tightly the point that it existed on was (pretty much) 0 (could it ever be exact?)… Maybe.

In this nothing immense heat of trillions of degrees (from the pressure of everything in nothing) forms matter. (what kind of pressure? the pressure to perform? to be?) Matter behaves in mysterious ways under these conditions and morphs into itself and back out and into itself again (called Quark-soup). Things cool and matter coalesces into its multi-varied basics, congealing into “things”–stars and maybe some rocks or dust or something–colliding and exploding again and again in the concept of space formed in the presence of matter. This creates more and more various forms of shit and the more collisions made (I would assume) the more matter is made (are car accidents a good thing then? Well. I don’t know if space really works like that…) 

Most of my books have a margin between 1 and 2 cm in width.ª Most of the “average” parts of HoL (say pg 74) have a margin of 2.9 cm. Some other sections (like the poetry) have a width of 4.8 cm or (the claustrophobia present on pg 126) 1.2 cm. The spacing is important. It is not standardized. It means something that there is 2.9 cm of margin on pg 373. That pg 544 has a margin of 4.6 cm. It means something that in these parts of the book I am writing, carving out my own footnotes, tracing patterns, bracketing off lines like

“My dear girl, is it that you are so lonely that you had to create this” on 360

or “A man and a woman meet, scarecely talk, enter into a covenant of mutual renderings; rehearse again what they find they have known together before, and yet there was no before” on the page before, taking time to note the “cover collage” on the way down to the bottom in another little side note. 

Next to the [F] entry on 544 I wrote†: 

“The fear willº
Destroy you
God is God is 
Providence be
our guide.
Thought guide
our providence.
Water guide
our thought.
The dark is all
around when
you shut your

These are only examples. There are more.
But: these shifts are not coincidence. This is this book taking hold. I know it. I can feel it. I spent three hours killing pages. Pages killing hours this afternoon. What time passed? The sun moved and I was surprised that the hill behind me grew a shadow. 
The emptiness in the margins made information from the density of the information held in their no-point.  The text of the novel is crunching itself into the folder in my brain marked House of Leaves and the more that goes in, the more that folder looks like its about to tear at the seams, the more I can pack in there… 

What’s that black spot? I still haven’t figured it out yet (maybe)…but I’m not giving up (maybe). It’s in my mind, right? In all actuality it’s just a black dot, not much more than a self-important period, a container and a void, something else to pack in, some guide or misleading lead… •

How about pg xxiii ? Steve just referred me to this. Scribbling in the margins. He says: “oooh–it’s magic” and I know that he’s joking but sometimes maybe that joke isn’t funny anymore (oh ask me ask me–if it’s not love then it’s the bomb… that will bring us together) and maybe sometimes this book is funny, but it’s more like I’m laughing at myself than anything else, and it’s more like the notes I wrote on the last page: 

“Remembering where you are…
the bliss is in forgetting”


“What I don’t know could fill a book
Nothing Nothing Nothing to say”

that make me want to think about what it used to be that I was thinking about before, like when I was a little kid and saying hello to all of the signs and bridges and trees and cars my mother and I passed on my 6 am journey to pre-school, but I’m older now and those thoughts are buried above a mound of other information pressing down around from the ground up to the top of my mind… It’s not so bad what we think about when we’re thinking: the important part is that we are thinking. What do you think about when there’s nothing else around? • is a dream. 

Did I mention my notes are all written in blue?  


ª excepting Michel Fabre’s The World of Richard Wright (1985) (2.2 cm)and Robert Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy (1927) that clocks in at 2.5 cm.

† For My Son 

ºline-breaks from margin space 

–Josh Barnes


~ by hobodreams on March 21, 2010.

%d bloggers like this: