transmogrification

or moving garbage into art and art into garbage or moving trash into art and art into trash or moving nothing into nothing and reverse.

...when one sees one of my pictures, one asks oneself this simple question, What does it mean.  It does not mean anything, because mystery means nothing either, it is unknowable. -Magritte

You just go in there, into painterville, and you can see all the famous and the infinite number of non famous painters.  They were all currently painting whenever they were or are alive, and still are, though we like moving them into the past and gone.  Doesn't matter really.  While in painterville you can talk to whomever you like.  Many are very friendly.  You can, if you wish, borrow their techniques, copy their signatures, talk to their friends, and even eat their food.  It is nice.

I will admit, since you insist on it, that most of the alive ones are a bit defensive, a trifle sensitive and weirdly compulsive about some nutty idea, well like most people of course.  But they are, each and every one, you know, interesting, especially when you get inside them.  But that is yucky, bloody and gooey, repulsive even, so let's leave that for Goya and that British guy,  we shall stand as proudly as we remember how, until we get bored, then we will sit down.

         
It is boring even sitting down, so let's lay down and close our eyes, and go back through painterville, and say hi to everyone, though I must say I am happiest to say hi to Blaise Cendrars and Louis Celine and Paul Bowles, what are they doing here anyway?, and go out the entrance to this boring stupid world of idiotically opinionated, creepy ant like creatures who all bite the ankles of the ones directly in from of them.  Ahh, what a waste.  And poor Nany, holding her mouth and her eyes in her hand as they find her heart an accurate witness.

And we go forth into the day.  Like an Egyptian.

Well you can see, I don't create any mystery.  Because in fact this whole darn thing seems completely mysterious to me.  How can something be understood on one level? and not exist on any other?

How do I complain about one lousy sentence which make no sense, and then loudly and happily sing the dumbest lyrics ever written to the entire grocery store?