The ball point pen’s ink gives off a sheen.  Sometimes it looks faintly purplish.  The paper I draw on has it’s own sheen.  It feels smooth like a similitude of water.  My hand is not steady, nor is my brain steady, late at night while I gaze at my invented pond.  I can watch the pen produce the marks and fish appear, and except for the fact that of course these fish don’t swim away, each line forming — while it forms — has inside it some of the uncertainty of watching the real pond.

Then to darken the shadows, I make these hatch marks that are not water.  And the pond becomes a drawing.  The make believe of it swims in front of my face.

I like its being a drawing.  I like the difference between the reality and a picture.  I like its being flat.  The sheen of the ink, the wavy unsteadiness of the lines, unsteady echos of the uncertainty in my head.  Scribbles that are like innocent moments of time suspended and hanging in memory.

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