“it is necessary to aspire to elevate spontaneity to consciousness”

-V.I. Lenin-

Red Spark

 

Asking yourself the question, what was it I intended to do?  Conceiving balance, proportion, invention, response.  Went about it like this: first, then second, then third, revise.  The choosing keeps changing each thing.  Yet you’re insisting on it.

You had started to bleed, just there, not bothering to stanch it.  Caught chunk of knuckle, leaving a fleshy gaping to pool.  Dab, pool, dab, pool.  Redundancy of wounds.  They had said let it flow to your paper.  Gives you a feel for the work.  Of getting your life out.  Opening a vein.

It’s not really all that.  There’s no pure letting the inside out.  It’s traveled a billion conduits, picked up and fought off zillions of miniscule aids and oppositions.  Polluted, infused.  You may be a “type,” but whatever your genre, its inextricably bound to all your surround.  In-filtrated, even as you are infecting.

The world is viral, and you – parasitic.

Whatever you’re intending – this is the outcome.

This is known by various names: “life-process,” “being,” “creativity,” just to name a few.  Some prefer “system” or “symbiotic machine.”  We’re handling synonyms and points-of-view.  The “intentions.”

All to mention your moves, as your choice and selection, as made in (by/with) the world.  Learning the language(s).  What is foreign in-heres.  You in-hear.  There are echoes.  Tracings in the blood.  You see it in typescript like this, a trans-literation, a bastard cross-current: sobytiinyi (as “evental”) brain placing “Soviet,” so be it, so-bytie, so- so close to co- (i.e. a “withness”) bytie (“existence or being”) implying that any event, that is, what happens, is always, always only conjunctive, collision, with-someone or something, you and other.

There’s Russian in your blood, after all, dripping off the thumb, some epigenetic repercussions of unknowing, the certainty of solitude failing.

Or, without which not.

And so on, as your intuition announces itself through inscription, a writing impossible alone – having need of some tools and an alphabet and ages of learning and co-being that uni-cates, some understood calling and shared, might occur.  What is – “to share.”

In other words, we all have a share in the stock, but no share counts for much without value in the stock, as it is shared.

I.e. your intention.  Sharing your share in the co-event (experience) of being (existence)…ancient mingling of bloods, as if there were origins to get to.

“Original Reproductions” then, co-mpliments of you.

Aimed from some desire toward co-mpletion; that perhaps this stock of shares shared increasingly might expand the value of each.  A Soviet dream.  And so be it.

So be us.  Only insofar as you provide your share in part with ours.  Our ares.  Ars.

Suggesting direction for the arts as an arc, shaping production of individual shares in the whole or evolving, an assemblage of expression, incremental co-habitus, -ation, drive or desire for some rhapsodic (raph-a seam; raphtein-to stitch; oide-song) symphony (a sounding together), the outmoded truism of “medley.”

The intent was to lift up in part.  Your part or your share, instrumental voice toward the theme you’re discovering to be in the join.

Our arts as the arc forming the theater…And why we urge you sing out –

so be it

so-viet

sobytie