F I E L D . . F I E L D . . F I E L D . . F I E L D . .
A field or a fallow? A fallow or a field? It's all the same land, the same ground. Must be ploughed and sowed. With a letter o. This letter is the best because it is the most grainy, the most seedy from all letters. Then this field would be the field of amazement and astonishment...

Only a dot, a period, a full stop, is more seedy, but it is not a letter. Unless it is a dot from i ^{. . . . .} Or from j . j seems more attractive. Has longer root and can't be torn out easily ^{. . . . .} So what? The dot is the same. There is no letter that would have a multi-dot spike above a stem-stalk. Well, more than two-dot... Hmmm… And if I sowed H and m? Such field could look quite lovely. It would be the field of slight hesitation mixed with delicate irony. It would look lovely, so what? What can be made of H and m ? These are but ordinary robust sticks-stalks. Not even stems | | | | | | | | | Oh, something could be plaited-woven-twisted-together. A fence. A shoe. A robe. A hat. . . . . . . With no doubt i is better. i gives us both a straw and a grain. Strokes and dots. And what can be made of these dots? Can they be ground into flour? Or maybe they are more like sand grains making a desert nobody knows when and how . . . . . . . . or a sea bottom ……

So, maybe it would be better to scatter a handful of various letters. Spill letters into a linen sheet (where shall take them from? shall I steel them? rob? possess? store them in bags? in a silo? in letteries (letteronaries)?), go to the field, sow like I in the past. Manually. Like a sower once did. No, not like a sowing machine. Never! Like A SOWER . . . . . . throw! THROW! throw! thROW! thththrow! TRROW! . . . . . . . . Rhythmically. Dancingly. Solemnly. Lively. As if straight-line, but not really straight. In row not in row. With unpredictable hesitations. With almost imperceptible jams. Stumbling slightly . . . . . . I would sow this field irregularly. With regular irregularity. Each time I would scoop different amount of letters. Every blow would be the same, but in fact different. And not only I would blow-throw-spill-scatter – from time to time the wind will blow too. The earth would pity my carelessness and light-heartedness, peculiarity of such sowing. What would I sow in this way – maybe a wild meadow? maybe even a field of corncockle? And if I made a selection? If I chose a few letters? Those most important ones. But which are the most important? One letter is not enough, is much too less. A lot of effort is needed to compose from one letter something legible . . . . . . . But this is a field. No doubt about that. This is not a lush, glimmering, gently undulating meadow. A meadow is a stupefying mumbling, an amazing daze. A field should be a dazzling dumbness.

F I E L D . . F A L L O W . . F I E L D . . F I E L D

The hypothesis presented above is not reasonable. If letters were seeds, then what would be the clods of earth? It would be more reasonable to assume, that the lines of letters are grooves in the ground, while letters are the clods of soil. But then the following question should be asked: what is this soil like? what can grow out of it? . . . . . What would be expected – ideas? convictions? opinions? fantasies? nonsenses? bullshits?

b u l l s h i t  g r o o v e s  b u l l s h i t  g r o o v e s

The above hypothesis, though a bit more reasonable than the previous (abover) one, will not be more reasonable than the next one, because it does not refer to the omnipresent whiteness (which in any moment can transform into any other colour, however for unknown reasons it doesn't do so). The next hypothesis, the one just being described in this very paragraph-patch, presumes that here everything grows out of white. Whiteness is the soil here. The white soil which any time can turn into any-colour-soil, so also in podzol soil – podsoil – and it would be better to write that there are only colour soils here, changeable and unpredictable, now white, not white in a while or white again . . . . . . . . Such unpredictability makes the third, this one, hypothesis even less reasonable than the first one.

F I E L D . . . . F A L L O W . . . . F A L L O W . . . .

Everything would be much more reasonable, if I were not only a sower, but also a plougher. I would begin ploughing from one edge of the field. I would reach the opposite edge and come back. One groove from the left to the right, another from the right to the left . . . . . And I should plough myself. Like a real ploughman. With an ard. Ard with a wheel. To make pushing easier. To make grooves not even and not straight. Like not perfectly parallel lines drawn by hand... And for sowing I would choose only symmetric letters. Having ploughed the field horizontally I would plough it vertically and then diagonally . . . . . . . Then the letters should have rotational symmetry – the reflectional one would not suffice . . . . . . . And when I ploughed, cut, tore, scarified and aerated the whole ground here would I know what to choose: field, meadow or desert? Provided that I had any choice…