It is often said that the first step in formalized art is learning to draw straight lines. Yes them, as a metaphor for discipline, diligence and concentration. But that couldn't be serious, you know! Straight lines are wildly sinister things. At the heart of almost all crooked contemplation so far. Think of the utilities of a straight line. Those with which you draw margins, and marginalize. Those that mark end to answers - notionally though, for no answer ends while life continues. Those that define bar diagrams in the extremely dangerous urge for comparisons. Those that make columns and help create illusory categories. Or those which draw borders, devastating humankind in the name of boundaries. Even when seen as a practical reality, hasn't an empty ruled notebook with straight lines all over, so closely resembled the ECG reports of several anonymous deaths put together until your verbal waves started dancing on them - as if life had started pulsating all of a sudden on an eternal desert of meaninglessness?

As for me, all my straight lines have always been waves, on which boats and twigs have floated alike.