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.

Comments

Totem

Tonight is old. It's wett but current and bored. I'm watching nothing but stars in the often sky that happen... do... tonight is lame like old, young like song, even as blue... Equal after the sun, noon or scripted yellow you are to me... A we (as sound)

Whiskers, chanting, "swap me, swap me!"

Fig.32) Aging poorly We're just together, taking ourselves for a tidy sum of walk and now our toes are wet and cool in the Lak, beside a cool stone that could drive a modernist to their flint. There's a listening experience that feels prepared, "our's for now, ours it says! Here's the hammer and it's wrapped in its own design already. A union in time-space, this card is our greetings, our massive, our very patience is reflected in this resolve." Suddenly, there's a cut away and she's wearing the pants that I've made for her, slow blue like painted smoke . I'm thinking about her hunched over the kitchen table, something that's stuck. There's a carving knife in her hand but from here, it's the same as an old spoon. From here my computer is sitting on my guilty seat, I'm thinking about champagne and comparing it to a thick wad bees and wondering whats in it for me? It's an anxious season, filled with not enough of anythin

Songlet is Best

fig.0231) FizzGraf MT. "Magical, like a chorus of like minded souls in a froth of cotton fumes." Over fake doors, under refurbished ladders, gypsum board and bent yellow pipes offering us an unmade bed and a stained window. Our one chance at tomorrow. Magnetic guts from at least a thousand cassettes are strewn across the room. Hee-Haw style, fancy dress shoes cling to the floor like it's '86 all over again. Hee-Haw, goes the sound. Hee-Haw, we're closer then we were. Hee-Haw, it's hilarious. Listening for trains, leaning out over the rails like two people with no time at all. Better maps, that's what we need. We could use a melody for singing with this chorus; in whose curious presence more patients wait to be found. With hands over our heads, someone passes by and asks, "gender?" There's stars in this sweet tooth of mine and some atoms left from the sky, Tonight the whole angle of heaven sleeps without light. Ordering its coffee darkest, t

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