Co-ex–sistere: To coincide in existence

 A disturbing abguish of belonging is being played out.

Art plays at being the voice that suggests how to speak of belonging to disarray; how to speak of the fear of scheming – to scheme, to plot … a warning paralyses us before these voices, charged at some time with stalking, as if something from the past should warn us about the textile act of interweaving image, memory and meaning.

We intuit that co-ex-sistere is a fractal that, mutilated, is rooted under our pillow, from the close eyes of childhood, from the secret fear of difference.

To coexist is not to live simultaneously, it is to coincide in existence. A coinciding existence is one that seeks to affect what is shared: what is most shared is difference, differences.

Playing at making room for differences would seem to be the polis of chaos to those who dream with the polis of order. Those who dream with the polis of order are part of the chaos of the polis of differences. Chaos is the name given to the diverse before it is understood.

In stasis reflecting or reflection is to find oneself inside the other.

In the strangeness of “co-ex-sistere” we ask the verb to make itself known.

There are no beggars of inexistence, of solitude, only kings: to reify is to make kings out of nothing of all those to whom we concede strangeness.

“To empower” means to remove the reification: to concede listening.

In the hands of ludopathic demiurges conceding or taking away listening would seem a game of squares, dice and pieces in which “luck can arrive at any moment”, as in that infernal roulette of the in “The Shanghai Enigma.”

What art-demiurge concedes listening? is not a false doubt or a trick question, but it could be it could be that much of what we now call art is like the light still reaching us from already extinct heavenly bodies: automatic production dictated by a world that has ceased to exist.

Our art may not have lost all meaning … perhaps it need to spend a moment in darkness, away from all we perceive as inequivocal… perhaps in that strange lapse, that might seem just one night, something more than age, colour or sex would have changed in the others … perhaps in ourselves, as in that fascinating Orlando of Virginia Woolf that we still remember.