Being alive is strange and buzzy. Most of the time, I feel like an overly sentimental bipolar bear or something, stomping around hoping some golden will stick to me. I play with toys and mistakes. I grab at dirt and discard in an attempt to fashion some semblance of a feeling I once had or cull some poetic out of a rag or stick. The things I make are highly responsive and seem to arrive at a disjointed space that sits on top of my experiences. I am concerned with the sense of the thing and what it feels like. I want to access abandonment with my hands, letting them run from me so I can’t keep up. After good days, I am left with the object in the room, haunting and inconsolable, making me want to keep going.