Ok, so I like to sketch
. Some people call it drawing
, some people call it art
, but let's be honest. I sketch. Which is fine, really. If I spent more time at it, I might be able to elevate it to a higher form
, but I'm not that driven
. Sometimes, I just like to scratch some graphite
off on some paper
So there I am. Sketching. Draining whatever abstract portion of my brain has survived from childhood. A lot of random crap makes its way through my head every day, but every so often, something will come along that demands it gets recorded. I might not remember names, I might not remember faces, but drawing something seems to relate more directly to the strange symbology of thought. So, if my head tells me it wants something recorded, it must be important, right?
We have now established the scene. Sketching. With purpose. I am engrossed in the scrawl at hand. My entire being is dedicated to spewing forth into this mead notebook that which I had been mulling just moments before. But what's this? Phone ringing? Pizza done? Computer beeping? Cats doing something particularly stupid?
I have been ambushed! My attention has been diverted without enough time to prepare! That is, my brain has sublimated from sketching to whatever else is going on. There has been no intermediate stage keeping track of where I put that pencil when I reached for the phone/pizza/keyboard/feline.
And now, here I am. I've sat back down, the notebook is back in my lap.. but there the hell is that pencil? Unless I threw it across the room, it's got to be within arm's reach of me, right? Between the couch coushions? Nope. Under the ashtray? Nope. Fallen into my pants? Nope! I can't find it anywhere. I jitter around searching the immediate vicinity, but to no avail. No matter how hard I try, I will not find it.
Until I stand up, and there it is.. right next to me.