Not a fortune-teller, soothsayer, charmer, diviner or caster of spells — nor one who consults ghosts and spirits or seeks oracles from the dead — I have nonetheless been wondering about the possibility of confusion and how we might be extinguished. I recently had to ask Thirty-Seven to remind me who Forty-Six was. I have been replying to everyone and then deleting them from the face of the earth. (In the end I got my own lightbulb.) I have been replacing the subject. We might need a new classification — this kind of interaction is completely new to me, I have no idea what the rules of engagement are. I have no idea what is to be shared and what is not to be shared; for instance, during the eighteenth century the difference between history or pornography or fiction wasn’t always obvious. Notwithstanding, I shall set down whatever occurs worthy of my notice, in such a way that — far from impeding progress, far from weighing upon it with rules and regulations — my notes shall in time facilitate the invention of the first fluxgate magnetometer.
Incorrigible in its integrity, Concussion Protocols continues Makin’s measured assault on our conditioned reflexes. His refusal to capitulate to the protocols of history delivers his language rituals somewhere on the far side of previous atrocity exhibitions.