I traffic in words and images. A crafted sentence is a gift, an intimate exchange. It is something I value as a source of broken down walls and bridged interiors, a thing that makes us more porous, less isolated.
I enjoy painting pages and stages with markings that refuse the invisibility inherent to subjective experience. This is me. This is me. This is me. A train of attestation rumbling across the p(st)age, making our grief less invisible. Give the invisibles ink and they will write their way into a bridge, give the invisibles ink and you will write your own lesson for a thing the world and your beloveds never taught you. Ink spilling everywhere, flowing, shouting "teach me to live!"
With a pen, I can write a map into my heart, with a pen, I can open my chest and say: "Look!!! Really, don't avert your eyes! Look! I am certain your invisibles contain some of the same!"
A refusal. To write subjective experience into visible existence is to refuse to believe we are alone, to refuse to believe the experience is singular. It is to join oceans and seas, it is a way to sail from my shore to yours, to float in an ocean together and remember that whether we see them or not, there are, always, stars.