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by Orlando González Esteva
Scribbles2 are the lianas of the forest of our selves. Clinging to them, the primate3 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 inscription4 states that the God Fu-Hsi 'conceived of knotted laces in order to rule everything between the four seas'. The ancient mariners5 tied and untied7 ropes to tie and untie6 winds. One knot undone8 lifted a breeze; The man who carefully fastens his shoe-laces, determines the direction of his steps, takes charge of his destiny. Whoever tightens10 his belt, controls his base passions. A neatly11 knotted tie deters12 verbosity13. 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 scribble1 to govern? To scribble is to scratch the pane14 of glass steamed up by the breath of the ineffably15 immediate16. Protowriting, dadagraffiti, archaic17 trace, Freud's fluff, the squiggle twists, wriggles18, 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 contemplated19 the face of God in the form of light- 点击收听单词发音
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