[On Incidence]

You never know who you'll meet just by sitting on a sidewalk. The world, it seems, passes by, wonder gathers momentum, words formulate from thin air. To wait is a ploy of its own- await a stranger, an encounter, the night. And as the words formulate from thin air, comes someone who initiates their existence and impregnate you with new ideal, a new door to open and walk through.

Something fulfilling may come of what seems dullness to most- the life of the parellel plane can continue on its course or drop radically off a precipice. One can only hope to drift downward as opposed to the free-fall to never again ascend. But this chance-encounter itself is limitless, because at any given time, we are exposed to the faculty of life-being, the arrival of Godot, the fallen leaf from the tree kissed by autumnal seduction.

If anything is learned of the accidental, or the incidental, it is all a revolution of time foaming its trail of its elliptical becoming greater in length as it approaches the sun. If we are unconcious during this encounter, our subconscious in pact with our biology supercedes, activates and causes our attachment to whatever we happen to collide with. Be it accident, the unplanned or mistaken, be it incident, the occurence, it sketches itself on our flesh, forges itself in memory that awakens only when we are awake. Until our awakening, it is only, simply, incidental in nature and definition.

The human body itself is created on various advanced increments of accidents, ancestral bacterium that aids our genetics to generate and create latter generations. And in this latter, the organism is still exposed of gene shift, incorrect trial and error and though it is tirelessly supplied with many endeavors to make the masterpiece of genetic transfer, there is still room for plausible mutation. In any organism an incident becomes, as that of the genetic malformation.

Our entire situs solitus (even the rare situs inversus) is a testament to a miraculous accident, a thesis of the physiological unity of all mankind. Nothing has been weeded from us from the australopithecine when speaking of the accident, only incident caused their demise, incident has failed to decimate mankind today, and thus the accident prevails.

The evolutionist is a consistent student of the accident and the incident, for in the interstitial lies the fauna and flora, the bygone and what has become. The race for arms continue on this seemingly planar scale which is not planar in the mind of one who lives outside of it rather inside as the philospher. It is of note to say that within the human spectra and species, there is not only a seperation of gender, male and female (xx and xy) but the seperation of the common man and the artist- for the common man is the accident and the artist the incident that has become of him. And by this design, the common man holds the fitness to outlive the artist, who by incidental design and an upward trot not supported by gravity, lives meagerly, merely and usually dies young at the expense, not choosing but having no choice, but to live in the abstract of this life.

The incident, then, as art in the individual, grows slowly and matures in spatiality, as the world is the womb and man the fetus, begins as nothing and becomes all. This is the event of the teratoma taking its first breath upon coming into actual life, coming into actuality. It is not as simple as how the philosopher thinks or the religious zealot believes, yet it enscones itself within the question as why does Halley's Comet arrives when our life is at its very end, or why does a mother gives birth to a child and bonds inseperably and births another and decompensates from it?

Nevertheless, a poem is made from the incident as it comes into body with the accident. The will of good nature or the constant of evil plays no part in the accident nor incident (inasmuch both precludes its own accidents and incidents) and relies on an inevitable conclusion.

Embrace that we are the master of all things, in mind and in action, and much understanding may come to fruition. And even under the influence of understanding, it comes with the price of endeavor, a price every person must purchase with time and every artist with blood. How else does the artist confidence to measure the atmosphere becomes arrogance, fearlessness?

If cameric-expression could capture truly life-expression, nothing would be left for us to decipher, no conundrums left in the wind as pollen spores adrift. Nothing stills or distills this time we are visitors to, even deja vu precludes with the vision of future, nostalgia is a conscience, present yearn and the dream subconscious tatters taken apart and given in specs six seconds within unconsciousness.

The first to be born is the accident and the last to be born is the incident, the poet is both. A writer of all things metaphysical- it is in the Euclidean that they make of all accident, incident and coincidence, poetry. What is seen as simple to the naked eye, they describe its intricacy with their abstract one. What becomes of the vision then is calcified in a womb of limitless space. While seated on the pavement, Dan, a good friend of mine, observes the symmetry of a student, a brunette in inherence and says "I'd spend the night in jail just to smell her up close." What is more brilliant, more sacrificial, than a man who is willing to give up his very freedom for the sake of close-encounter with beauty at its barest? When I hear this, I am reminded of Sir Walter Raleigh, a man imprisoned in a tower for thirteen years, crosses a sea in a mission handed to him by his captures, fails and returns, under no duress, to face his death. In equation, Dan willingness to give up his freedom is similar to Raleigh's voyage to the sea, to behold beauty, if only once, if life is to continue to be an inclined stage we all perform on improvisation amongst an ambivalent audience.

The incidence is the view of this unknown, brunette dietess, the accident, her walk onto the side street into the view of Dan's and mine.

Moments after, a roommate of Dan's walks up, half-drunken, speaking of his comatose state that followed a bottle of Irish whiskey. We speak of the world, of women, of the sun and the god. Coincidence; a bee lands on my notepad. I grab their attention and discuss the madness that old world philosophers held for the representation of female dominance and the collective. Dan's friend approaches and in one quick suck and gulp, almost a simultaneous motion, inhales the bee into his mouth and swallows it. It is an impressively cruel action but it splices the character of him. He then became all old world philosophers in my eyes, with an attempt to devour all omnipotence of woman. Then, he is stymied and sure the bee had stung him in the throat and again, I know that the endeavor of man to rid himself of female predominance is an endeavor at best, an anomaly that never becomes paradigm. The incidence of the female bee landing and the accidental encounter of Dan's friend was an ironic feat, a coincidence that the leitmotif of feminine defeat in disposition, in genetics.

One cannot make known the great worth of an incident unless one has experienced it first hand- neither fully, neither astonishing, it sits in personal, motionless, set, as its ghost, the tale, lives forward to the life of the storyteller, the lives that have taken it within. The incident has taken life and brought it about, forfeited life and returned it and as the incident becomes the accident, or the coincidence, it takes away the control one feels that they have over their lives, makes myth of the destiny and replicates life twofold.