I wonder, as I do, if pain is [f]actually needed

for art to cre-

mate, or otherwise conjoin, the misery we feel

which drives us on to wonder, as I shall

will myself now beyond a doubt, whether

truth is to be found

only in loss – or if happi-

ness and gay pursuit can bring

about a routing of pain to such an ex-

tent we can shroud this thing we call death



Really, all I want to know is if the pro-

spect of a life in art requires us to

hurt ourselves in sav-


ing maso-

chisms of abys-



ms which defend our right

to up the price of what we do – of

everything we do.


And really, all I want to

know is if comm-


can re-

engineer – without sneering at all –

the practice of art

to such an ex

tent that together we’d work and

at the same time be

free of

trees of passing hierarchy which heavily de-

mand we

tramp our souls so

gravely under-

growth and

weighty foot,

forgotten and recalled, and easily neglected

by other challENGINE: that other band of tightening

noose around the life we

loosen without thinking that thinking is

precisely what we need to tighten

grips on tips of living life before we lose

a chance, a favour: the colour of love.




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