“what is the shape of mourning? what is the sound of a memory? how do we honor the sharp, tingling sensation of yearning that fills the cavity of our soft bodies when we think of how things could have been?

we honor this present moment by attempting to breathe life into this institution, which like all other museums, necessitates death. by prioritizing preservation over decay, archive over life. sites where bodies become artifacts, and bones are refused the honor of a slow degradation back into the atoms of the earth.”

-excerpt of artist statement from this was a densely wooded hill

“So much of my life has been a fight against. Systems, institutions - in reaction to. It is only now that I am trying to live my life not against anything, instead, in service of. Not a taut fisted, steely eyed resistance, but an open armed, deep breath leaning towards.

Everyday, I try to move towards a life that, while incidentally against capitalism, feels only like tipping my body precariously and fearlessly towards life and joy and meaning. On the very edges of my toes, my arms waving at my sides for balance. A combination of elation and fear.

In this reorientation, I have started to find the most natural, easy, free way to spend my days. There are, it turns out, so many things to live for. In its baseline, literal definition, isn’t this the true meaning of revolution? (A turning towards, a turning away)”

-excerpt of reflection on a search for home

“does the light remember all the things that time has made us forget?
could it remind us if we asked? does it remember silence? the space between words, closed lips, between bodies in repose, between borders made and erased and made again uncrossable?

could it comfort us, somehow, with the simple reminder that a certain slant of light at a certain time of day in a certain year is a result of the entirety of the universe aligning just so that this moment could look exactly this color exactly this way for us to witness, hold witness hold -the good, the bad - the remembered and always, the forgotten.

i think of the history of a place, and where i can go to retrieve it.”

-excerpt of poem for what can the light tell us?

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14. can my work be a poem?

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