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.