Ase Ase Tse Te Se from Volodymyr Bilyk
Lost in music. In the course of recording In a Silent Way - Miles Davis asked John McLaughlin to play guitar "as though you didn't know how to play the guitar”.
What if asemic writing is actually a tzimmes of writing at all. The core. Tastier part. Let us dance on that. Writing is Rite. Rite without an abstract. And as a prayer - two acts of writing don’t remind you The Act of Writing - the common and respected. Killed in peace. Rest in Action.
It’s an act in space, affected by the space, marked by its terror, with ribbons hanging all over the place, semaphorically speaking to you from behind your back - useful but fruitful. And all just inside. Writing as the act of isolation in progress. Writing as the teapot-making routine. It looks pretty much the same especially when you perceive it – you can find common elements that will bindbend the thing into preexisting form but there’s always a very different background behind. But because of some doubts – it’s almost exclusively a confusion of familiarities.
It's hard not to be tempted not to think about asemic writing as something that is a mixture of worldview and device - heart and hand. But the entire act of such writing is already a seduction of primal directives of your mind. Whatever that will never mean.
It's not about art at all. And so it makes the greatest ease of all by leaving this discriminated (‘cause sometimes it goes over-the-top and happens to be not taken seriously) legal issue out of place. It's musicscienceeconomics or something. In the matter of mystery with scissors which happened here not to cut in half and then release but to tear some holes around to let some light to pour the odds out. This all makes for the most ridiculous revelation of all.
Nevertheless asemic writing is a proudly littered field. You can always find another vessel and be dazzled by its appearance and its attitude inside of you. And it's all the way through too hard to be pasted up directly without personal distortion. There's no Way or Path- there’s a kind of mountain pass - one-off - you go and it crumbles away after your steps. But you can always sense that the crumbs are after you as a foggy notion and it's "Do it again"-shanty.
Lets think of sand. Sand sculpture and sandstorm. One material – in fairly different substances. Both can be captured. Both will be remembered. But the capture itself is something different from the frozen documented moment. In fact it’s something that never really existed – jam of chance and techno overdrive. Famous blue “Make it New”. Defamiliarization.
Suspended into question and requiring an effort to be employed imaginatively. It’s living for nothing and belief in keeping some kind of record. But it’s all covered up with fear and filth and cowardice and shame. A trial to smile on.
There will be never an eternal pile for pyre and there will be never a hidden pony to dig. But you can come through. You can possess, you can enjoy, you can be puzzled, you can be frustrated, you can learn something, you can care. You get the sense of what isn’t real and not exactly there. But its coming and you hear it.
Nothing dead and ponderous out of context. Everything will be lost. And it's the magic moment thing. Nut with worms around it.
But no, it's not.