Complexity is what we create; our familiar cussedness comes out and easily defeats us. The harder things in life are the simple ones.

Whenever I manage to disregard the rulemonger holding class in my skull-room, the method-nazi intoning, You are not trained, and I drag a utensil of any sort over a surface, say cardboard or paper, so as to leave a track, a trail, a vestige of my commandeering, of my interference with the materials, what remains there, even if a dog’s breakfast, acquires a life of its own, a pitiful dignity, a tiny glory somehow magnified, beautified, invested with significance beyond so-called merit by its jaunty concreteness. I have pushed through. I have made a drawing. (The present perfect lends my achievement the verily sound of registered utterance.)

Some may say, Congratulations! You’ve managed a doodle. I hear the irony, the patronizing, the pity from on high, but I’ll take it. Thank you. I’ll call my doodle a drawing, and we part, and go our ways, you yours, I mine.

Nonplussed.
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