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Owing To Art As Experience (1934)

a. illustration of cosplay scenerio: Superman v. Frank Castle

The Monstre' robe is wool, it's not deaf. The floor is solid and his shoes sound worn. Still, it's a fine and comfortable picture, a fire casting it's questions on the high wall. Searching for an intentional agent among the heaviest of the low apricots that he's devised. Let's suppose that the certainty of an old brown ladder is equal to the comfort of a well lit room. That the finitude he experiences is not a barrier so much as it's the threshold to a more significant scheme. Let's assume that this is a comfort to the man with his hands in his pockets right now.
Straight lines are what Dewey flirts with. The order that society, or more precisely Dewey seeks within art is an ephemeral ideal. It's easily lost in the ubiquity of a loud culture of hotel rooms and dirty wigs. Dewey's conception of art is that of any ordinary tool. But it's only the wisp of the apricot cast from another means into that end. It's really not a very useful apricot and it sits on Dewey's wooden shelf above his wooden desk like its a fixed point. A wooden memory around which experience is staged.
Still he attempts to complete his experiment despite having only one very special and very bent pearl handled ratchet thingy. In a world of deeper and more rich comparisons Bud+LU might step up and slap him solid for being such a sanctimonious pike end, and Dewey might even laugh at them... Assuming that the entire world isn't unreal, or perverse?  Assuming that the entire world isn't overly anarchic with its many blind corners and all of those tumbling hats and so on?
You can't make me talk talk talk away.
No matter what the cost, I'll be there. I've got you.
You've got me. You've got me, John Dewey? Well who's got you?
Indeed the spring has sprung.


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