I am feeling small, a leaf adrift on the sea, as small as small can be, and in feeling small I am thinking about Dororthy Porter's take on Lorca's duende, the dark sounds of art, the duel with death that comes out so rarely in artistic work. We all dabble in it, I guess that is true, and Lenny Cohen gets near the truth when he hinted (in Live in London) 'cheerfullness kept breaking through...' but we can't deny it, not forever, not for always...
