Does mystery have value if no human desires to explore the underlying structure, a revelation of the un-mysterious? Anarchists are profuse with word bombs convoluting thoughts (or mental pop-ups) aimed at emotively reasoning an end to some offensive authority: including even rational thoughts. Certainly there is an explorable mystery in organizing explosive emotive thoughts.
Veer a bit to see a pile of coat-hangers.
Wire “art materials” from the junk deposited (with good intentions) at the door of The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture.
During the chilled months confinement in the tent, some attendees began “coat-hanger sculpture” projects. A coagulation of disagreements soon puddled around the project tables. The makers were adamant that no narrative or story should be attached to their output, no figures recognized. Their wiry sculptures don’t have to say anything, just…BE. They are just abstract sculpture.
But some of the scribbler types soon identified works that resemble diagramed sentence structures, therefore implying a story or meaningful words. Attempts were made to place subject, object, and predicates plus adverbial phrases, predicate nominatives and all of the other bits and thoughts (often absurdities) preserved in sentences, as then making meaning of the coathanger art. 
The wire artists, remembering the cognitive dissonance of junior high school, embroiled with the less-physical learners about keeping “their” propaganda out of “my” art.
The structures became more convoluted and complicated and enlarged in scale (a wonderful word for sculptors, meaning bigger, commanding presence). These became huge steel structures perfect for holding bifurcated cliches.
The grammatical tyrants analyzed speeches of emotive politicos (word bombs, isolated utterances of dubiously ordered facts, paltry similes), and applied them to the sculptures.
And so sculpted steel now supports dissembled stories; combined mysteries occupying the open areas of the tent of irreconcilables.
The pale light illuminates an insufficient answer to a question seldom asked…is there meaning without a story.
In the beginning, We had sweet and simple idea remember? This was a place where the creative and natural could have a simple reunion: inviting neglected anarchists and enfant terribles from now and the ages, to a country picnic. A rural simplicity joined, sharing art. We refused proper names (except for Yorick) in the hope that all would feel included, even unmemorialized names. We have appointed The Deciders, for simplicity, to service opportunities in this old circus tent become museum. Deciders are rendered as the spiritual hobby-horse head of their youth, a personae, avoiding issues of photo rights.
Play is the eldest of habits, preceding the scribbling on cave walls, the accumulation of stuff, the maturation of mythical leaders, the harvesting of row-crops, the forming of balls (and bombs), and the counting graphs of wealth and power.
Please excuse the following official note:
Recent events at the tent have left some cracks in our present story. The local audience half-expected some pose by a bleeding Yorick. The white-walled gallery, now needs rebuilding. The Deciders have demanded more color bombs and authority, something of an aristocratic triumvirate. And so we move on, to a more noble day (?).
Anachronistic Anarchist by Herb Eaton 