The World Is A Possibility If Only

And The Mind That Has Conceived A Plan Of Living Must Never Lose Sight Of The Chaos Against Which That Pattern Was Conceived. That Goes For Societies As Well As For Individuals.

The Blues Is An Art Of Ambiguity, An Assertion Of The Irrepressibly Human Over All Circumstance Whether Created By Others Or By One's Own Human Failings. They Are The Only Consistent Art In The United States Which Constantly Remind Us Of Our Limitations While Encouraging Us To See How Far We Can Actually Go. When Understood In Their More Profound Implication, They Are A Corrective, An Attempt To Draw A Line Upon Man's Own Limitless Assertion.

Our Task, Then Always, Is To Challenge The Apparent Forms Of Reality-that Is, The Fixed Manner And Values Of The Few, And To Struggle With It Until It Reveals Its Mad, Vari-implicated Chaos, Its False Face, And So On Until It Surrenders Its Insight, Its Truth.

The Blues Is An Impulse To Keep The Painful Details And Episodes Of A Brutal Experience Alive In One's Aching Consciousness, To Finger Its Jagged Grain, And To Transcend It, Not By The Consolation Of Philosophy But By Squeezing From It A Near-tragic, Near-comic Lyricism. As A Form, The Blues Is An Autobiographical Chronicle Of Personal Catastrophe Expressed Lyrically.

Having Tried To Give Pattern To The Chaos Which Lives Within The Pattern Of Your Certainties, I Must Come Out, I Must Emerge.