“telling a story means tracing your finger through the ashes left by the fires of experience” – alvaro enrigue

I love drawing from the world – almost anything, almost everything – ingesting, sensing, feeling, digesting (transforming, processing) into me to pass it on again.

I love the encounter of humans – frightening, fragile things – the desire and revulsion our fullness brings.

Hope.  Dread.

I hope to be loved and wanted.

I dread the opposite.

As if it were about me.

As if there were a thousand suns

And we were one of them


Time doesn’t work that way.

It’s been called an arrow

but it’s likely not –

likely wrinkled, warped and bent –

just like us

giving life to it.

Love is like this.

Like our memories.


I remember clearly what is incorrect –

if anything’s erected so.

I doubt it,

along with me and you and everything else…


just enough to believe.