What can be known through movement, is perhaps the question? An account of the sun, of waves of tall grass, the silences between steps. Movement recorded as a way to elucidate the release, and the tension, felt as you walked through a polyrhythm of insects, thinking about your decision to stay and to go; a decision made out in blue.
This leads me to my bends and rises in the dark. The evening school of my mind, where colors dance on the back of eyelids, structures of light are unbound, form is liberated. Form becomes a method, a ritual, to stir out myths and dreams. Cracks of time dart out showing how vast light (and self) can be.
Time and place as poetic measures. These works are poetic measures, articulations of the unfixed nature of time. What can be known for sure? That measures of the seemingly fleeting are creations of the infinite.