A common myth about writing: It’s a solitary art. But I’ve never been very good at writing alone and while the image of the lone writer in a secluded cabin might be romantic, it’s appeal starts and stops in my imagination. Functionally, writing is always an act of reaching outward: to the anticipated reader, a future self, a time unknown. I write because I’m trying to understand the world, what I owe it, and how to love it.
my process often feels like a wandering-wondering mode not led by a concrete intention, but more out of little impulses and curiosities. via inviting pores, pauses, porosity and permeability in human actions, my practice asks: how may human move with and to be moved by the more-than-human world where livable actions such as deep listening, entangled agency, symbiotic relations, and odd kinship are already implicated in their dailiness? how do human become with, participating in the livable relations happening in the more-than-human world which we are a part of?