I am concerned with a type of tickling:

This could be interpreted as humour, but it is not meant as such. On painting’s exoskeleton, I aim towards the ribs; beneath the costal, protected by it, are the organs of the art, each with its own force; some are dominant, and others are so quiet, so subjugated, that perhaps they have not yet been noticed. I free them up with a kittle-cattle, rouse as many of them as possible; in turn, the painting-belly vellicates with its laughter.

Nor do I mean it as play, exactly; I am interested in the ludic, but I am not at all a Luddite; I believe that the machine is here to stay, as perhaps too is 'Freedom', though that too may have become mere play, a gaming globaliser that has bred the sim-citizen. What then of the native? Is he 'gone with the wind'?

In that case, do I mean a tousling? Certainly, I ruffle the Hollywood head, the Global 'reality' that impinges on the surface of the skin; though it may be a false actuality, it affects our ribs, our organs, our innards.

I am interested in space; one might think that I mean the race to space, and it is true that I am taken by the 'right stuff'; you may anticipate a 'but' here, but there is no butt, no joke is offered, nor do I refer to some extremity; I do not wish to contrast 'inner' and 'outer' space, but I am interested in a kind of yaw which happens in between.