Circles of Hell

A grid of colored blocks floats behind the screen. The movement of my hand on a block of plastic sends a small black arrow skittering a trail of green. I try to divorce the thought that this is too drastic a separation between mind and hand. Where is the block of ink, the bamboo brush? Digital ink spills, smears across the glowing medium, yet not a drop on my fingers to remind me of a thoughtless moment, a soundless sound. Where is Giotto's skill when perfect circles spread with the ease of pebbles dropping in a pond? Perfection and perfection and perfection . . . The tool is not the problem, it is the eye which no longer cares for content but for repetition, infinite generations of perfect circles, in their unyielding sameness.