Well-begun is half-dead, like the Cat.

The start of a new diversion for a wandering and wondering intellect. Off to the garden of earthly delights, and thence pondering Gauguin’s three questions and stumbling back on a drunken Moebius strip. The path is recursive. Thoughts and words tumbling and fumbling together in a not-unwanted, but not-expected mating ritual.


What emerges out of this Pandora’s Box, one does not know.

One only hopes that Hope still lies somewhere there, waiting.

“What here I’ve said from fancy’s wing
A sense supporting of my need
You may deny – say – no such thing
’Tis all wrong every bit indeed.
Well! to your judgment I must bow
Freely it’s exercise allow
You perhaps to such are more inured.
Your notions may be more endured
But whether it be or be not so
You can afford to let this go
For nought as nothing it explains
And nothing from nothing nothing gains.

RICHARD DADDElimination of a Picture & its Subject—called The Fellers’ Master Stroke



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