I sat on a bench in a park. A park I had no idea what its name was. I had walked around like an ant in an empty match stick box, boxed and trying to figure out how things had become dull and dark all of a sudden. Thinking about this metaphor as I looked at my empty palm up jittering hands a boyhood memory of an ant I once trapped in a match box flashed across the dark recess of my dull witted mind. Something burned in my heart, perhaps it was hope. Hope that I will spin myths again. Truth be told I was scared of sitting on my desk and looking at the blank pseudo white page of my computer trying to pen the next work. It has been fruitless months. I could not even bring myself to spin a haiku, blessed the Japanese’s inventiveness of contracting a potent saying in seventeen syllables. But this too has amount to nothing. I wondered whether this blockage of my wits had anything to do with my last stance on the cultural artifact we call art. That art, for it to be understood the society within which it is produced must be prepared to critique it, through pure viewing, through a dual critique – or viewing if you let me have that.