A Drawing

I sit back in my chair to look at my work and the tuner crackles slightly from my movement disrupting its signal, and my flow of work.  That fat of my lower palm and the rounds of my knuckles shimmer from a sheen from a coating of graphite.  The joints in my fingers sigh with relief as I let them from their crumpled, curled pose and the tip of my thumb throbs around an indentation left by a pen.

Although I deeply love my computer and the tools it has to offer, I can never seem to replace the raw energy it takes to create a drawing.  The computer is clean and precise, and allows for infinite error correction.  A master of perfection, a king of magic tools.  There is something; however, raw and unfettered, real and with personality about the physical medium.   It’s as if the thoughts flow out of the mind, through the nerves, out the fingers and directly through the pen.  Nothing is sacred, no line is perfect.  There is a bit of wobble in every stroke, an extra dot, too long of a line.  Nothing seems to look quite right until you pull back from the final stroke and it finally takes on the life you had hoped.   With the pencil or pen and paper at hand, comes a bit of uncertainty and acceptance.  You direct the drawing a little one way, and it directs you a little this way.  There is no undoing and no refining the line once it is on the paper.  You have to be willing to accept where the drawing takes you; it is a bit like a wave.  You direct the drawing a little one way, and it directs you a little this way.

Somehow in the end, it is never exactly what you wanted, but it is always exactly what you meant.

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