I.

First person pronoun which refers to a particular type of operator in the context of a sentence. I, who is necessarily a fiction, who necessarily drops away leaving a determinate negativity behind that you, who is Other, who is the not-I reading this, fill in with projections shaped in part by the characteristics of the sentences and in part by your own imagination. I advance disassembled and naked.

The story of your relationship to the I in a sentence is the first story.

I. I. This I moves about in a region of 3-space we will call for the time being Tiny Town. It is a coastal Massachusetts tiny town stretched out along the mouth of the Essex River, wrapping around the mouth, wrapped mouth. It is multiple in it's tininess: the marsh, the ocean, the houses, the businesses, the streets, the 10-foot long painted wooden lobster on the side of a fried clam restaurant that smells the year round of fry-o-lator oil and offers the obscure pleasures of "eating in the rough" not dining, a pile of Maryland clams fried in lard that you eat over a checkered paper placemat on a picnic table.
The antique shops that you pass on the way in the antique shops you pass on the way out. The people most of whom I do not know.

The abstract relation of the I who is not-you information about which is required for the projections to unfold that will make the I you and not you is the second story.

I. I. I. I am here for many reasons, I am here for no reason. The manifold::the zero.

My project in Tiny Town is the dismantling of an other personality and the process of building another. Once in a bar I described myself as a recovering academic. Once in a bar, I was looking around the room, at the low nicotine stained ceiling, at the television monitors nailed to the walls that beam experience-distant information flat-wise into the center of all interactions: I was looking around the room while on one side my brother and on the other a woman who owns a toy store were talking about something or other, I do not know, and I just started talking.

That situation was not unlike this situation.

That night, like now, both unfolded below an artificial nicotine sky, the world near and that far equally flat, I started talking.

The establishing of linkage between levels of potential narrative is the third story.
The story of the third story as allegory is the forth story.
The story of the fourth story as allegory is the fifth story.
And so on.

I.I.I.I. I left Chicago 80 days ago to come to Tiny Town. My brother offered me a place to stay. I had been working as a adjunct and using its one advantage--time not taken up with committee work and other such--to devote my attention to soundwork. A year and a half before 80 days ago, I left Philadelphia, where I had rigged up a quite functional situation and moved to Chicago. The situation there never really worked and the relationship at the center of my world there frayed and frayed and then flew apart.

80 days ago I had reached the point of partially understanding why at the structural level this had happened.
80 days ago I had already decided that my soundwork was pushing into a new place and to pursue it I needed resources, that my writing had become formally experimental and really was no longer academic but was not other-than academic and so it made sense to consider it, too, a type of art production that required more resources to continue.
80 days ago everything flew apart and I flew with it, the momentum of the flying apart sending me out of what I had known and into this, this tiny this, this grotto where the I I I I I writes from.

This story, the historical machinery, goes unnumbered.

Overhear turns the machinery of my brother's family.

I in the grotto, marginal and lost, confused and stumbling, am scared most of the time.

This is the n-story, the variable story.

I will tell for a while of the processes of shedding my skin until there is either nothing left or something else emerges.

I will test this place that all the I I I I I Is tracks across, the white wilderness.
The white wilderness will differentiate through the trails I leave.
the scratches I leave on the wall.

This is my new novel.