The Pictures

I know these aren't pictures. They're books. My books. But I want to tell you about the pictures. I went yesterday.
You might come from a part of the world where that colloquialism makes little sense... going to the pictures.
In my part of the world it means going to the cinema.
But I don't want to talk about the film.
Not quite
I want to talk about what happened to me - and happens to me on other such occasions when the entertainment is sublime - whether it be a film, a concert or an exhibition - where art is laid out for us to suck up.
It's the same.
That taste I get in my mouth.
Metallic, like blood. Like licking a knife. Dangerous and edgy, but necessary and satisfying.
I need it.
I suspect we all need it.
It was the latest Sherlock Holmes film. But that's by the by - almost. Except it was being there that reminded me of that feeling. That sensation. That lifting up of the spirit- that reminder of the human condition, that feeling of just being alive and wanting/needing to confirm it.
I think that's what art does to/for me.
Making my own art brings me close to it sometimes.
When things go right I get to taste that taste.