"who moved my pear?"
58" x 60", Oil on Canvas
It was late afternoon - or early morning, which way was I facing? - when I came to the maze of the Mind, bounded by Time.
I sat for a moment on the sun-warmed marble, my thoughts wending a labyrinthine journey as the Wanderers wended their own, into the distant mountains, perhaps searching for Plato’s Cave.
I thought about my journey, and friends no longer with me. About Nietzsche, who always had an interesting perspective. I can almost hear his voice now;
“The only way you think you know that the maze has a solution of straight through is because of where you’re sitting. For everyone else, the Maze is a baffling, seemingly endless struggle, a clock for whom there is no escape. Besides, what is your objective?”
What indeed? I wondered what another companion, Descartes, would have said were he here - the two often argued.
“Nonsense Freddy, this is privileged access in its truest sense, for had he not come this way, he could not see the elegant simplicity at its heart, simplicity that eludes all others. He knows this is the way, for the Maze is his mind - there is no objective.”
I know this is the way...or do I? Is this epistemological justification, or just that problem Eddie Gettier had some years back? What would my relatives, Emic and Etic, have made of this place? Topological ruminations on the Eulerian Trail - did I find it by chance or by design?
Below my dangling feet, chiselled messages on the wall promised relief...but the marks were old, and I could not read them.
Idly I noticed that the wanderers are evolving - why? Are they superficial changes? Maybe I’m the architect of this change, without realising it.
I sat there, missing my friends, wondering what the time was.