I’m so nervous my heart feels like a small charcoal searing my left lung and the more I think about it, the more the fire treads the deep path of acid reflux and leaves my body spent.



I continue folding in on myself, turning to a sedentary existence when not at work or at a show. I have formed and calcified disgust and disdain for my body, for its folds and range
and capabilities and for how truly small my capacity has gotten. I am made anxious by my shallow breathing and headaches, antagonized by chronic pain, crazed by failing eyesight, and
most primarily, filled with deep and overwhelming fear as the nerves in my fingers and arms lose feeling, steadily.

The greatest point of worry, however, is that I seem to be an observer in my own life. I’ll jolt awake, panic stricken, but the next day contains only sweaty bedsheets and a sore neck.
No dance, no stretch, no movement—no life. I feel entombed within myself, punished by myself; resentful.

Thank god for art, though. Thank god for Nicole. Thank god for Lise. Thank god for Max and Isaac and Shrav and Colin agreeing to my ideas and giving me good souls to be beholden to.
If it weren’t for this show, I wouldn’t’ve gotten out of bed the last few months. This winter would be devastating and the grey January world would’ve already consumed me but, for the
first time in many years of life, my birth month is beautiful to me. The bare trees beat back the vacant sky. The wind is enlivening. It has character and is true. I can’t joke about
January anymore. Now I’m on the defensive. It’s so cold and so clear these days. How many more Januarys will we get?



Tomorrow is my first residency show at Epiphany Center For the Arts. The preparation for this piece has been my salvation. Its release will be a good challenge.
I’m so glad I’ve found myself, once again, at this part of the cycle.