Durational drawings, made without lifting the pencil and tight, round wrist motions. Made discreetly, eyes closed or focused elsewhere--in waiting rooms, during phone calls, and when contemplating my to-do list. Sometimes representational, sometimes fully disassociated.

It’s a pathological drawing practice, one of blending out darkened areas and hard edges--growth edges. They look like skin rashes, petri dishes, something metastasized, and saltwater relics.

Interspersed are the ritualistic first marks I make in the front covers of my notebooks, forever trying to catch the right edge of my mechanical pencil’s soft graphite. They look like edge changes, etched in ice by figure skaters--which look like Pitman Shorthand. They look like appropriated randomness.