Time has been a persistent concern in my work.  Time and biophilia, a lifelong love for the natural, a drive to explore the human relationship to the encompassing world.  Time is spiraled in on itself, a snail’s shell, a multilinear matrix.  We ride one strand, careening between disasters.  These works are memories from an adjunct future, post-apocalyptic, triumphant, celebrating what remains, what survives.  Like all memories they’re distorted, by transmission, by storage, by replication.  A story changed by the telling.

 

 Sometimes I feel like I might slip under and it’s okay. Abandon myself piece by piece. A hand.  A strand of memory. A favorite slice of pie. A long-forgotten pattern. Sink into another reality. The veil between here and there soporific and bejeweled.

 

I like it here. I remember I am an animal. I am soft. Bent and pliable. I could be small. With enough room for more. The world electric. A version of the moon ever present. The one with the cat.   Deer shroud themselves in wool and crystals. The Last Unicorn is never discovered. Beaded mold rules supreme, a barnacle, a form of rust. Manmade decay is subsumed by stone, by the prolific need for anything that resembles water.  

 

A settling into the aftermath. The persistent rush has been turned down a notch. Time crawls by on mirrored hooves. Lungs bursting and ripe, the typewriter has melted. Someone lost a shoe. All those who keep track have gone to bed. A mist hangs low, shimmers, recedes.   I watch, augur, play, remember, make.  Okay with the distortion.