Learning to Walk.

I have little artistic ability, but I still like to draw. From early memories of drawing faces under the spell of a fever, frantically scribbling the sweat to my pores so I could fly to Florida for a vacation to memorizing (or not) chinese characters based on how they seemed liked posed bodies, I have a fondness for the human form rendered as a series of uncomplicated lines.

That's why I carry index cards and a pen in my bag. I draw something, I write a caption. I do it in stick figure form, both in image and narrative. The last few days I have been working 12 hour days, hoofing between gigs and then hoofing home. I have seen a lot, but I have not written much. My bag carries me across town, my bag carries computer and book and notebook and an out-box/in-box compartmentalization of index cards scribbled on crouching in leaves as each image type writer strikes me to pause and note. Whether they will be anything or not, I don't really care. Matchstick strikes, we write.