Part of the strength of Pollock and Rothko's art, in fact, is this doubt as to whether art may be there at all.
I'm heading for a clean-named place like Wisconsin, and mad as a jack-o'-lantern, will get there without help and nosy proclivities.
I write with experiences in mind, but I don't write about them, I write out of them.
The winter does what it can for its children.
Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.
Until, accustomed to disappointments, you can let yourself rule and be ruled by these strings or emanations that connect everything together, you haven't fully exorcised the demon of doubt that sets you in motion like a rocking horse that cannot stop rocking.