Your wife said, “Haram,” but we already fell from quite a height
This what happen, left to his own device
You’d be embarrassed to know the price (It wasn’t much)
The bag was light, the rags was still tied tight
There was no particular gripe, I seent it all crescendo
Stepped over son when it was my turn at the window
Backwoodz single, change on plexiglass
Yeah, that’s my jingle
“What is art? It is not decoration. It is the re-living of experience. The artist says, ‘I will make that event happen again, altering its shape, which was disfigured by its contacts with other events, so that its true significance is revealed’; and his audience says, ‘We will let that event happen again by looking at this man’s picture or house, listening to his music or reading his book.’ It must not be copied, it must be remembered, it must be lived again, passed through those parts of the mind which are actively engaged in life, which bleed when they are wounded and give forth the bland emulsions of joy, while at the same time it is being examined by those parts of the mind which stand apart from life. At the end of this process the roots of experience are traced; the alchemy by which they make a flower of joy or pain is, so far as is possible to our brutishness, detected. What is understood is mastered. If art could investigate all experiences then man would understand the whole of life, and could control his destiny.”
Rebecca West | Black Lamb and Grey Falcon