Why does true North keep shifting?

It’s the same sort of pissed-off as when fiction makes you cry. It’s the pissed-off that says Why should I deal with this, it exists in a realm outside of me. Map change time. Then, of a sudden, it comes sharply into focus and hits you square between the eyes, in a way only depth perception can provide. Its scope is suddenly crystallised and defined sharply (not in any way to make ‘relief’ implicit) and it becomes, most definitely, one’s own problem. One as in son-of-man is not. How’s that for convoluted? The problem lands squarely back on this side of the court, and the frustration of it always coming back slowly subsides. Maybe it’s time to play ball-boy. Not in a temper-tantrum-look-at-me-I-stole-all-the-balls-and-now-try-playing-with-scrunched-up-newspaper-instead-I-dare-you kind of way, either. Definitely without that element of party-pooper (or extreme hyphenation). It’s time to use short, clear sentences, speak clearly, avoiding the weirdness of expectations of weirdness [sic. - not a late night typo] and acting not as cudgeller but leaving the usual implements firmly tied to the ground. By the way, this is not bloody leisure. Don’t delude yourselves into believing this a faisandé – though it is that, in parts, perhaps – it goes beyond artifice. Art and pretense extend beyond what is known and make mansos of about half of us (though perhaps to say ‘make’ is an incomplete rendering of the problem). But then the artists ‘do a mizzle’ (look it up, this is slang from 1910-30′s, not a product of all ma homies) and with them their art, and suddenly… suddenly what? Suddenly, we’re (plural first person) back to not having a clue what the way forward should be. Leave your painting as a compass. Oh, but it is a sculpture. Installation art. Post-modern crap. Why does true North keep shifting?