I spit on my finger and wiped off the picture

When I was in school and bored in class, I used to make a series of dots on my desktop with a pen. Then I'd let go -- by that I mean any attempt at control, preconception, whathaveyou -- and connect the dots.

Then I would sit still and figure out what I'd drawn.

Every time I found I'd drawn something. Something recognizable. A movie star's face, a specific plant, an armoir... It didn't matter how crazily I stabbed at the desk, how random the pattern. The lines always made a picture.

Every time I started, I doubted the end result would yield a thing. I had no faith.

I proved myself wrong every time.

Now instead of looking for patterns in random dots, I look for patterns in the shower tile, in the popcorn ceiling. I see faces, wishing I could draw them and share them. If I could just copy the tilt of that woman's neck, the muzzle of the lion, the witch on her broom, you might see the world the way I see it.

But what good is that.

Still, I try.