If life were a sheet of narrow ruled A4 paper, I’d be the doodle
in the margin. The one you start ten minutes into a lecture or a staff
meeting. At first you’re not thinking, just moving the pen, tracing
anything that comes to you, just to cut out the monotonous drone of the
speaker.
The doodle starts to take shape, you take a breather to admire your handy work, and you give yourself a little pat on the back. The ghost of Picasso appears beside you and tips his cap, “Not bad, love, not bad…” and all of a sudden you’re caught up in a doodle frenzy. The lines that once separated art from the artist become blurred and neither one is in control, all that remains is a chaotic symbiotic synergism of the moment, its environment and your unconscious mind.
The moment seems to be over 'as soon as it has begun. The frantic penmanship ends abruptly and the flow of ink has been broken...
It takes more than a few seconds for you to centre yourself and get back into the room….
You’re breathing heavily, sweating, unsure of the time passed and the moments that have preceded the one you’re in now…
The orator, has paused, puzzled by your state. Eyes meet and confusion is felt on both sides...
As the orator sluggishly starts a new sentence like a vintage turntable, leaving a trail of dead syllables hanging in the air; you slowly gaze down onto what can only be described as the retarded scribblings of an infirm orang-utang that refuses to eat anything but his own shit.
You expel the last bit of air out your lungs with a faint “What the fuck is that?”….
That’s me. I’m that doodle.
The doodle starts to take shape, you take a breather to admire your handy work, and you give yourself a little pat on the back. The ghost of Picasso appears beside you and tips his cap, “Not bad, love, not bad…” and all of a sudden you’re caught up in a doodle frenzy. The lines that once separated art from the artist become blurred and neither one is in control, all that remains is a chaotic symbiotic synergism of the moment, its environment and your unconscious mind.
The moment seems to be over 'as soon as it has begun. The frantic penmanship ends abruptly and the flow of ink has been broken...
It takes more than a few seconds for you to centre yourself and get back into the room….
You’re breathing heavily, sweating, unsure of the time passed and the moments that have preceded the one you’re in now…
The orator, has paused, puzzled by your state. Eyes meet and confusion is felt on both sides...
As the orator sluggishly starts a new sentence like a vintage turntable, leaving a trail of dead syllables hanging in the air; you slowly gaze down onto what can only be described as the retarded scribblings of an infirm orang-utang that refuses to eat anything but his own shit.
You expel the last bit of air out your lungs with a faint “What the fuck is that?”….
That’s me. I’m that doodle.
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