From an early age, I felt called to help safeguard our seas, and those who rely on them. As ecology focuses on the interconnected relationships between life forms and their surroundings, so too does my work.
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“Who fucks who?” — The bumper sticker for horny queers and high intensity spiritual seekers alike, the crystalline crescendo of expanded consciousness pulsing through you like the mechanics of extended orgasm, the electricity of it all riding and cresting and riding to its delicious, barely tolerable heights, you can’t stand it, you stretch and screech in pleasurable agony, oh god make it stop (you don’t want it to stop), and suddenly you come, or the universe comes (who fucks who?), and you’re released, out of self and out of personhood. You’re big like the sky…
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Similar to how I feel, my characters do not have set gender expressions. Occasionally, I will use names or some kind of gender markers, but there’s no sense of strict gender presentation…
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The newborn sleeps through coffee grinder and vacuum, because the inside of a uterus is a train station under water, all thrum and whoosh and beat and rumble. Nine months is long enough to hang art on the walls and justify the nail holes. Long enough to know: I live here, this is mine, this is home…
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My entire adult life has been about being intentionally vulnerable in hopes of getting better; that vulnerability is an invitation to meet me in my art to connect and find shared experience…
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I have 19 little blue people living in my throat. I feel them grabbing fistfuls of flesh on their attempts to ascent through my throat up to my mouth.
They’re small enough and light enough, their hands and feet don’t hurt me much, but there are enough of them to make their presence, their power, their intentions known. They want out. They need out. They came here only to escape...
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