I’m slowly pulling the threads apart from the tightly woven knot of my summer. Each cord seems in itself uneventful or even plain as it separates itself from the mass. Together they were a weighty creature. Now that routine is restored, and the strands are aligned in the proper places I feel my mind pulling back together.
Toward the end, as nerves ran high, emotions boiled and boredom prevailed, I could be found feverishly drawing out patterns, tight complicated arrangements of shapes and dense grouping of lines in black ink. Most evenings I could hardly hold a conversation, only draw. There were moments during this fury of mark-making that I questioned this phenomenon, but it was a resolution for a deep need of order and so I kept drawing. It felt satisfying to dissect my chaos into understandable and even organized patterns.
I’ve experienced this in years past when I was less habitual with my sketchbook. At those times it would manifest itself in an obsession with Sudoku or Crosswords or some other sort of solving. I rather like the tangible qualities of these little drawings. They seem more descriptive of my state. Sudoku doesn’t do that.
Now as I return to sketching, it’s not with the same intensity. I feel more free. My lines are lighter. Spaces are growing between boundaries. Shapes are becoming objects. I use pencil and paint. My mind is quieter.