by Orlando González Esteva

    Scribbles are the lianas of the forest of our selves. Clinging

    to them， the primate still in us frolics free.

    Knotting has always been a form of governance， of exercis-

    ing power over others. Eliot Weinberger recalls a Second-

    Century Chinese tomb where the inscription states that the God

    Fu-Hsi 'conceived of knotted laces in order to rule everything

    between the four seas'. The ancient mariners tied and untied

    ropes to tie and untie winds. One knot undone lifted a breeze；

    two， a gale， three， a storm.

    The man who carefully fastens his shoe-laces， determines

    the direction of his steps， takes charge of his destiny. Whoever

    tightens his belt， controls his base passions. A neatly knotted

    tie deters verbosity. The woman who wraps a scarf round her

    head owns her own thoughts， the one wearing a foulard will

    keep her head.

    Who does he govern， the man playing with a line， looping it，

    pulling it？ What does he govern？ Is to scribble to govern？

    To scribble is to scratch the pane of glass steamed up by the

    breath of the ineffably immediate.

    Protowriting， dadagraffiti， archaic trace， Freud's fluff， the

    squiggle twists， wriggles， like a new-born babe on the diaper of

    the blank page.

    Scribble is a microphotograph of the procession we all carry

    inside us.

    Stripe without tiger.

    Frown without forehead.

    Larva of creation.

    Caricature of abstraction.

    Visual Jitanjaphora.

    Rubric of freedom.

    If a wound，

    what does it open？

    If a scar，

    what does it close？

    Daniel contemplated the face of God in the form of light-

    ning. A graphic doodle： a shadowy beam， a snapshot of the

    Devil， a Lucifer in charcoal.