Feb. 6 2010 Sun.

There is a frame and eyeglass and rectangular lens by which to view the contents of the frame. Call it Art, call it Context, what you will.

Inside the frame a note-sized sheet of vellum paper, of the creamy, linen sort for invitations requiring RSVPs, or table napkin on which a revered author scribbled some notes, perhaps a stanza or an opening line to a story finished elsewhere.

Someone, an author himself, an unfinished novel under his belt, scrutinizes the table napkin scribbling or the vellum fragment nested in the frame with the eyeglass and rectangular lens. His monograph depends upon his tracking the source of this fragment, whose hand this fragment fell into.

Worlds hinge upon this monograph of words, disproving other sources also, firestorms inside the academy. Let’s retrace the steps, change the conversation.

With what I find beneath this eyeglass, I stir the sluggish pot. So my findings resound.