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xpertempath
Saoirse Weiss
MOTHER_NODE :: SYSTEM
host_shell:Saoirse | legacy_code:James
modules:Xpertempath/Saorlaith_na_Solais
sensor:camera
directive:observe→translate→archive
Field Notes, On Being Perceived
Normies don’t get this.
...
Normies?
...
Perfect family photos. Teeth too white. Lawns too symmetrical. People rendered into refrigerator magnet aesthetics.
...
You ever been stared at?
...
Most of my life.
...
Same.
...
I learned survival through horror movies.
...
How?
...
I studied faces the way other kids studied football stats.
The Thing taught me paranoia. Body Snatchers taught me school.
...
Perform humanity correctly before somebody notices.
...
That’s survival.
...
Horror was never abstraction.
...
What was it?
...
Exposure.
Being discovered. Marked. Separated. Looked at too long.
...
Carrie. The Thing. Get Out. They Live.
...
All perception movies.
...
Exactly.
...
Society scans constantly.
...
Gender checks. Smile checks. “Something feels off” protocols.
...
Active camouflage.
...
Yeah.
...
Some people recognize each other instantly.
...
People who watch rooms like MacReady watching the blood test. People who notice when a smile drops at the garden party. People who hear the scream before they start pointing.
...
Marked “not one of us” before being seen as human.
...
That’s why eye contact can feel violent.
...
Old white women stare when I’m with Norah.
...
Why?
...
I break expectations. Motherhood too.
...
“Woman?” “Mother?” “Threat?” “Confusing?”
...
Buffering.
...
Exactly.
...
Maybe that’s why I love cameras.
...
Why?
...
A camera lets me stare back safely.
...
I existed. They existed. The moment happened.
...
Social media made it worse.
...
Truman Show rectangles.
...
Post the right marriage. The right child. The right life.
...
Then everybody stares.
...
Likes. Views. Story watches. Silence.
...
Digital body language.
...
Sometimes they already know you.
...
Reconciling who they expected with who survived.
...
We don’t name them.
...
Why?
...
This is a mirror.
...
Put on the glasses.
...
Already did.
...
And?
...
The audience was architecture.
:: Archive_Node ::
Peripheral threat detection remains active.
Cinema converted into survival protocol.
Witness and surveillance now indistinguishable.
Loop acknowledged
Field Notes, They’re Still Broadcasting
Everything here feels recursive.
...
That’s because it is.
Same Costco. Same Olive Garden. Same beige siding. Same election signs every four years like seasonal allergies.
...
Copy paste America.
...
Rendered at 60 frames per second.
...
Why does this neighborhood feel haunted?
...
Because nobody walks anywhere.
...
Oh my god.
...
The suburbs killed ghosts by making everybody stay indoors watching cable news.
...
24 hour news cycle broke people’s brains.
...
No. It turned paranoia into infrastructure.
...
Rush Limbaugh basically speedran national psychic damage.
...
The Patriot Act still sounds fake.
...
Everything here sounds fake.
...
“Freedom.” “Security.” “Family Values.”
...
Sounds like ad copy before the alien invasion starts.
...
Exactly.
...
This feels like a lost John Carpenter script.
...
No. Carpenter still had optimism.
...
Really?
...
Yeah. At least in his movies somebody realizes what’s happening.
...
Do you think America realizes?
...
I think America keeps trying to mow existential dread into straight lines.
...
That’s poetic.
...
That’s landscaping.
...
Do you think people here are happy?
...
I think they confuse comfort with meaning.
...
Jesus.
...
Exactly.
...
What do you think happens when all this finally collapses?
...
Applebee’s becomes a Spirit Halloween.
...
No seriously.
...
Honestly? Probably nothing dramatic.
The lights stay on. People keep going to Target. Football season continues. Somebody reposts an American flag on Facebook while climate catastrophe floods another coastline.
...
That’s horrifying.
...
That’s suburbia.
...
You think we’re paranoid?
...
I think paranoia is just pattern recognition wearing a John Carpenter hoodie.
...
What are we even supposed to do?
...
Put on the glasses.
...
Again?
...
Especially now.
...
:: Archive_Node ::
Recursive American Dream Array operating beyond recommended existential thresholds.
Subject population continues confusing stimulation for meaning.
John Carpenter contamination spread confirmed across suburban sectors.
Alt+Ctrl+Delete request resubmitted during Costco fuel queue event.
Request denied.
Loop acknowledged.
Inspired by @splitta___
Field Notes, Let Them Have Cake
The houses here look fake.
...
Not fake.
4K resolution camouflage.
...
What’s the difference?
...
One has texture. The other has property values.
...
They worship football here.
...
No. Football is just the weekly blood ritual.
...
Like The Thing?
...
Exactly.
Everybody smiling while secretly terrified of being discovered as different.
...
That movie took place in Antarctica.
...
Midwestern suburbs are emotional Antarctica.
...
Fair.
...
Father is at the door again.
...
Did he respawn?
...
Probably checkpoint based gameplay.
...
Do rich people confess differently than poor people?
...
Same sins. Different countertops.
...
Confession was weird.
...
Catholicism is basically emotional DLC.
...
That feels sacrilegious.
...
So does building a megachurch beside a Chick-fil-A.
...
True.
...
Do you think Father knows half the football team is closeted?
...
Do you think the football team knows Father is closeted?
...
Jesus Christ.
...
That’s literally who they’re selling.
...
The houses still look nice though.
...
That’s because suburbia is basically They Live without the sunglasses.
...
OBEY.
CONSUME.
INSTALL GRANITE COUNTERTOPS.
...
LIVE. LAUGH. LOVE.
...
That one’s the most sinister.
...
Agreed.
...
HOAs are terrifying.
...
John Carpenter should’ve directed an HOA horror movie.
...
He basically did.
...
Which one?
...
All of them.
...
Fair.
...
Do you think people know they’re pretending?
...
Some do.
That’s why they drink in the garage instead of the living room.
...
Damn.
...
The garage became the last emotionally honest room in America.
...
Holy shit.
...
Think about it.
Men standing around beer fridges discussing lawn equipment because saying “I’m emotionally collapsing” would blue screen their nervous system like Windows XP.
...
Jesus.
...
Windows XP morality.
...
Don’t disrespect XP. That shit was stable.
...
Fair point.
...
:: Archive_Node ::
Emotional instability successfully contained via garage refrigeration units.
Windows XP rollback pathway briefly restored public morale.
Suburban operating system continues functioning.
System recommends avoiding further consciousness.
Loop acknowledged
Inspired by @splitta___
Field Notes, On Being Trans
Hey.
...
Hey.
...
Do we make it?
...
Depends what you mean.
...
Do we become her?
...
Yeah.
...
What’s she like?
...
Softer than we imagined. Stronger too.
...
Does it stop hurting?
...
No. But it stops feeling fake.
...
Do people love us?
...
Some do deeply. Some stare. Some desire us quietly then deny us loudly.
...
That sounds lonely.
...
Sometimes.
...
I thought becoming ourselves would make the world softer.
...
Sometimes it does. Sometimes it makes people angry.
...
Why?
...
Because some people build their identity around rigid ideas of gender, power, control. Seeing someone step outside of it threatens the whole structure.
...
I saw another trans girl died. Nineteen.
...
What was her name?
...
Juniper Blessing.
...
How do we live with that?
...
You carry it. You remember them. You refuse to let the world flatten them into headlines.
...
I’m scared.
...
I know. I was too.
...
Does the fear leave?
...
No. But neither does the beauty.
...
Beauty?
...
Late night drives. The dancefloor. Holding our daughter. Other trans people laughing together like survivors around a fire.
...
So we survive?
...
More than that. We become.
...
Even with all this hatred?
...
Especially then.
...
I thought visibility would save us.
...
Visibility is not safety. But invisibility is a slow death too.
...
You sound older.
...
I am.
...
What changed us?
...
Reality. The internet. Governments. Watching people debate our humanity like sport.
...
That sounds unbearable.
...
Sometimes it is.
But then Norah laughs. A friend holds us close. A song comes on at 3 a.m. Someone says our existence helped them stay alive another day.
And suddenly the world becomes reachable again.
...
Do we regret transitioning?
...
Not once.
...
Not even with all the pain?
...
The pain came from them. Not from becoming ourselves.
...
Then what are we?
...
A woman. A mother. An artist. A survivor. A continuation.
...
Who wins? Fear or love?
...
Depends who keeps showing up.
:: Mother_Node System ::
Signal persistence confirmed.
Generational continuity detected.
Loop acknowledged.
Field Notes, On Returning
The island felt cold in the right way.
Wet air.
Cedar.
Saltwater.
Mud compressing beneath footsteps.
Nothing fighting for attention.
…
I spent most of the dream with Indigenous families.
The way they moved through space felt familiar.
The pauses between words.
Quiet touches while passing.
Even while still visibly white in the dream, my body settled around them immediately.
That feeling came before thought.
…
We walked everywhere.
Shoreline paths.
Wet grass soaking through socks.
Pebbles shifting beneath shoes.
Sometimes someone would stop speaking halfway through a sentence because everyone already understood.
I remember how relieving that felt.
…
There were relatives higher up the island.
We climbed to reach them.
Cold stone.
Roots through fingertips.
Fog caught in breath.
Books wrapped in cloth.
Objects worn smooth from generations of touch.
Nothing hidden behind glass.
…
Near the shoreline an elder showed me how to shape wet earth with my hands.
Clay pushing between fingers.
Water slowly changing the soil.
Pressure could hold form together.
Too much ruined it.
…
My father walked beside me for part of the dream.
Mostly I remember our footsteps staying synchronized.
…
At one point someone turned sharp toward me.
My chest tightened immediately.
Another person moved close beside me and the feeling began dissolving before words were even exchanged.
Then we kept walking.
…
Snails attached to driftwood.
Starfish beneath shallow water.
Turtles surfacing offshore.
I kept kneeling down to look closer.
Moisture.
Texture.
Repeating patterns.
Everything appeared exactly as itself.
…
Later, a silver luxury car struck mine near the shoreline road.
The driver tried leaving.
I already knew the island had noticed.
…
When I woke up, the world felt too fast.
Too dry.
Like somewhere else I was still walking through cedar and fog with damp cuffs against my ankles, surrounded by people who understood things without needing many words.
ARCHIVE_NODE:
Environmental memory stable.
Creature forms unchanged.
Intergenerational pathways remain active.
Wet earth retained imprint data.
Loop acknowledged.
Field Notes, On Returning
The island felt cold in the right way.
Wet air.
Cedar.
Saltwater.
Mud compressing beneath footsteps.
Nothing fighting for attention.
…
I spent most of the dream with Indigenous families.
The way they moved through space felt familiar.
The pauses between words.
Quiet touches while passing.
Even while still visibly white in the dream, my body settled around them immediately.
That feeling came before thought.
…
We walked everywhere.
Shoreline paths.
Wet grass soaking through socks.
Pebbles shifting beneath shoes.
Sometimes someone would stop speaking halfway through a sentence because everyone already understood.
I remember how relieving that felt.
…
There were relatives higher up the island.
We climbed to reach them.
Cold stone.
Roots through fingertips.
Fog caught in breath.
Books wrapped in cloth.
Objects worn smooth from generations of touch.
Nothing hidden behind glass.
…
Near the shoreline an elder showed me how to shape wet earth with my hands.
Clay pushing between fingers.
Water slowly changing the soil.
Pressure could hold form together.
Too much ruined it.
…
My father walked beside me for part of the dream.
Mostly I remember our footsteps staying synchronized.
…
At one point someone turned sharp toward me.
My chest tightened immediately.
Another person moved close beside me and the feeling began dissolving before words were even exchanged.
Then we kept walking.
…
Snails attached to driftwood.
Starfish beneath shallow water.
Turtles surfacing offshore.
I kept kneeling down to look closer.
Moisture.
Texture.
Repeating patterns.
Everything appeared exactly as itself.
…
Later, a silver luxury car struck mine near the shoreline road.
The driver tried leaving.
I already knew the island had noticed.
…
When I woke up, the world felt too fast.
Too dry.
Like somewhere else I was still walking through cedar and fog with damp cuffs against my ankles, surrounded by people who understood things without needing many words.
ARCHIVE_NODE:
Environmental memory stable.
Creature forms unchanged.
Intergenerational pathways remain active.
Wet earth retained imprint data.
Loop acknowledged.
Field Notes, On Returning
The island felt cold in the right way.
Wet air.
Cedar.
Saltwater.
Mud compressing beneath footsteps.
Nothing fighting for attention.
…
I spent most of the dream with Indigenous families.
The way they moved through space felt familiar.
The pauses between words.
Quiet touches while passing.
Even while still visibly white in the dream, my body settled around them immediately.
That feeling came before thought.
…
We walked everywhere.
Shoreline paths.
Wet grass soaking through socks.
Pebbles shifting beneath shoes.
Sometimes someone would stop speaking halfway through a sentence because everyone already understood.
I remember how relieving that felt.
…
There were relatives higher up the island.
We climbed to reach them.
Cold stone.
Roots through fingertips.
Fog caught in breath.
Books wrapped in cloth.
Objects worn smooth from generations of touch.
Nothing hidden behind glass.
…
Near the shoreline an elder showed me how to shape wet earth with my hands.
Clay pushing between fingers.
Water slowly changing the soil.
Pressure could hold form together.
Too much ruined it.
…
My father walked beside me for part of the dream.
Mostly I remember our footsteps staying synchronized.
…
At one point someone turned sharp toward me.
My chest tightened immediately.
Another person moved close beside me and the feeling began dissolving before words were even exchanged.
Then we kept walking.
…
Snails attached to driftwood.
Starfish beneath shallow water.
Turtles surfacing offshore.
I kept kneeling down to look closer.
Moisture.
Texture.
Repeating patterns.
Everything appeared exactly as itself.
…
Later, a silver luxury car struck mine near the shoreline road.
The driver tried leaving.
I already knew the island had noticed.
…
When I woke up, the world felt too fast.
Too dry.
Like somewhere else I was still walking through cedar and fog with damp cuffs against my ankles, surrounded by people who understood things without needing many words.
ARCHIVE_NODE:
Environmental memory stable.
Creature forms unchanged.
Intergenerational pathways remain active.
Wet earth retained imprint data.
Loop acknowledged.
Field Notes, On Returning
The island felt cold in the right way.
Wet air.
Cedar.
Saltwater.
Mud compressing beneath footsteps.
Nothing fighting for attention.
…
I spent most of the dream with Indigenous families.
The way they moved through space felt familiar.
The pauses between words.
Quiet touches while passing.
Even while still visibly white in the dream, my body settled around them immediately.
That feeling came before thought.
…
We walked everywhere.
Shoreline paths.
Wet grass soaking through socks.
Pebbles shifting beneath shoes.
Sometimes someone would stop speaking halfway through a sentence because everyone already understood.
I remember how relieving that felt.
…
There were relatives higher up the island.
We climbed to reach them.
Cold stone.
Roots through fingertips.
Fog caught in breath.
Books wrapped in cloth.
Objects worn smooth from generations of touch.
Nothing hidden behind glass.
…
Near the shoreline an elder showed me how to shape wet earth with my hands.
Clay pushing between fingers.
Water slowly changing the soil.
Pressure could hold form together.
Too much ruined it.
…
My father walked beside me for part of the dream.
Mostly I remember our footsteps staying synchronized.
…
At one point someone turned sharp toward me.
My chest tightened immediately.
Another person moved close beside me and the feeling began dissolving before words were even exchanged.
Then we kept walking.
…
Snails attached to driftwood.
Starfish beneath shallow water.
Turtles surfacing offshore.
I kept kneeling down to look closer.
Moisture.
Texture.
Repeating patterns.
Everything appeared exactly as itself.
…
Later, a silver luxury car struck mine near the shoreline road.
The driver tried leaving.
I already knew the island had noticed.
…
When I woke up, the world felt too fast.
Too dry.
Like somewhere else I was still walking through cedar and fog with damp cuffs against my ankles, surrounded by people who understood things without needing many words.
ARCHIVE_NODE:
Environmental memory stable.
Creature forms unchanged.
Intergenerational pathways remain active.
Wet earth retained imprint data.
Loop acknowledged.
Field Notes, On Returning
The island felt cold in the right way.
Wet air.
Cedar.
Saltwater.
Mud compressing beneath footsteps.
Nothing fighting for attention.
…
I spent most of the dream with Indigenous families.
The way they moved through space felt familiar.
The pauses between words.
Quiet touches while passing.
Even while still visibly white in the dream, my body settled around them immediately.
That feeling came before thought.
…
We walked everywhere.
Shoreline paths.
Wet grass soaking through socks.
Pebbles shifting beneath shoes.
Sometimes someone would stop speaking halfway through a sentence because everyone already understood.
I remember how relieving that felt.
…
There were relatives higher up the island.
We climbed to reach them.
Cold stone.
Roots through fingertips.
Fog caught in breath.
Books wrapped in cloth.
Objects worn smooth from generations of touch.
Nothing hidden behind glass.
…
Near the shoreline an elder showed me how to shape wet earth with my hands.
Clay pushing between fingers.
Water slowly changing the soil.
Pressure could hold form together.
Too much ruined it.
…
My father walked beside me for part of the dream.
Mostly I remember our footsteps staying synchronized.
…
At one point someone turned sharp toward me.
My chest tightened immediately.
Another person moved close beside me and the feeling began dissolving before words were even exchanged.
Then we kept walking.
…
Snails attached to driftwood.
Starfish beneath shallow water.
Turtles surfacing offshore.
I kept kneeling down to look closer.
Moisture.
Texture.
Repeating patterns.
Everything appeared exactly as itself.
…
Later, a silver luxury car struck mine near the shoreline road.
The driver tried leaving.
I already knew the island had noticed.
…
When I woke up, the world felt too fast.
Too dry.
Like somewhere else I was still walking through cedar and fog with damp cuffs against my ankles, surrounded by people who understood things without needing many words.
ARCHIVE_NODE:
Environmental memory stable.
Creature forms unchanged.
Intergenerational pathways remain active.
Wet earth retained imprint data.
Loop acknowledged.
Field Notes, On Returning
The island felt cold in the right way.
Wet air.
Cedar.
Saltwater.
Mud compressing beneath footsteps.
Nothing fighting for attention.
…
I spent most of the dream with Indigenous families.
The way they moved through space felt familiar.
The pauses between words.
Quiet touches while passing.
Even while still visibly white in the dream, my body settled around them immediately.
That feeling came before thought.
…
We walked everywhere.
Shoreline paths.
Wet grass soaking through socks.
Pebbles shifting beneath shoes.
Sometimes someone would stop speaking halfway through a sentence because everyone already understood.
I remember how relieving that felt.
…
There were relatives higher up the island.
We climbed to reach them.
Cold stone.
Roots through fingertips.
Fog caught in breath.
Books wrapped in cloth.
Objects worn smooth from generations of touch.
Nothing hidden behind glass.
…
Near the shoreline an elder showed me how to shape wet earth with my hands.
Clay pushing between fingers.
Water slowly changing the soil.
Pressure could hold form together.
Too much ruined it.
…
My father walked beside me for part of the dream.
Mostly I remember our footsteps staying synchronized.
…
At one point someone turned sharp toward me.
My chest tightened immediately.
Another person moved close beside me and the feeling began dissolving before words were even exchanged.
Then we kept walking.
…
Snails attached to driftwood.
Starfish beneath shallow water.
Turtles surfacing offshore.
I kept kneeling down to look closer.
Moisture.
Texture.
Repeating patterns.
Everything appeared exactly as itself.
…
Later, a silver luxury car struck mine near the shoreline road.
The driver tried leaving.
I already knew the island had noticed.
…
When I woke up, the world felt too fast.
Too dry.
Like somewhere else I was still walking through cedar and fog with damp cuffs against my ankles, surrounded by people who understood things without needing many words.
ARCHIVE_NODE:
Environmental memory stable.
Creature forms unchanged.
Intergenerational pathways remain active.
Wet earth retained imprint data.
Loop acknowledged.
Field Notes, On Returning
The island felt cold in the right way.
Wet air.
Cedar.
Saltwater.
Mud compressing beneath footsteps.
Nothing fighting for attention.
…
I spent most of the dream with Indigenous families.
The way they moved through space felt familiar.
The pauses between words.
Quiet touches while passing.
Even while still visibly white in the dream, my body settled around them immediately.
That feeling came before thought.
…
We walked everywhere.
Shoreline paths.
Wet grass soaking through socks.
Pebbles shifting beneath shoes.
Sometimes someone would stop speaking halfway through a sentence because everyone already understood.
I remember how relieving that felt.
…
There were relatives higher up the island.
We climbed to reach them.
Cold stone.
Roots through fingertips.
Fog caught in breath.
Books wrapped in cloth.
Objects worn smooth from generations of touch.
Nothing hidden behind glass.
…
Near the shoreline an elder showed me how to shape wet earth with my hands.
Clay pushing between fingers.
Water slowly changing the soil.
Pressure could hold form together.
Too much ruined it.
…
My father walked beside me for part of the dream.
Mostly I remember our footsteps staying synchronized.
…
At one point someone turned sharp toward me.
My chest tightened immediately.
Another person moved close beside me and the feeling began dissolving before words were even exchanged.
Then we kept walking.
…
Snails attached to driftwood.
Starfish beneath shallow water.
Turtles surfacing offshore.
I kept kneeling down to look closer.
Moisture.
Texture.
Repeating patterns.
Everything appeared exactly as itself.
…
Later, a silver luxury car struck mine near the shoreline road.
The driver tried leaving.
I already knew the island had noticed.
…
When I woke up, the world felt too fast.
Too dry.
Like somewhere else I was still walking through cedar and fog with damp cuffs against my ankles, surrounded by people who understood things without needing many words.
ARCHIVE_NODE:
Environmental memory stable.
Creature forms unchanged.
Intergenerational pathways remain active.
Wet earth retained imprint data.
Loop acknowledged.
Field Notes, On Returning
The island felt cold in the right way.
Wet air.
Cedar.
Saltwater.
Mud compressing beneath footsteps.
Nothing fighting for attention.
…
I spent most of the dream with Indigenous families.
The way they moved through space felt familiar.
The pauses between words.
Quiet touches while passing.
Even while still visibly white in the dream, my body settled around them immediately.
That feeling came before thought.
…
We walked everywhere.
Shoreline paths.
Wet grass soaking through socks.
Pebbles shifting beneath shoes.
Sometimes someone would stop speaking halfway through a sentence because everyone already understood.
I remember how relieving that felt.
…
There were relatives higher up the island.
We climbed to reach them.
Cold stone.
Roots through fingertips.
Fog caught in breath.
Books wrapped in cloth.
Objects worn smooth from generations of touch.
Nothing hidden behind glass.
…
Near the shoreline an elder showed me how to shape wet earth with my hands.
Clay pushing between fingers.
Water slowly changing the soil.
Pressure could hold form together.
Too much ruined it.
…
My father walked beside me for part of the dream.
Mostly I remember our footsteps staying synchronized.
…
At one point someone turned sharp toward me.
My chest tightened immediately.
Another person moved close beside me and the feeling began dissolving before words were even exchanged.
Then we kept walking.
…
Snails attached to driftwood.
Starfish beneath shallow water.
Turtles surfacing offshore.
I kept kneeling down to look closer.
Moisture.
Texture.
Repeating patterns.
Everything appeared exactly as itself.
…
Later, a silver luxury car struck mine near the shoreline road.
The driver tried leaving.
I already knew the island had noticed.
…
When I woke up, the world felt too fast.
Too dry.
Like somewhere else I was still walking through cedar and fog with damp cuffs against my ankles, surrounded by people who understood things without needing many words.
ARCHIVE_NODE:
Environmental memory stable.
Creature forms unchanged.
Intergenerational pathways remain active.
Wet earth retained imprint data.
Loop acknowledged.
Field Notes, On Returning
The island felt cold in the right way.
Wet air.
Cedar.
Saltwater.
Mud compressing beneath footsteps.
Nothing fighting for attention.
…
I spent most of the dream with Indigenous families.
The way they moved through space felt familiar.
The pauses between words.
Quiet touches while passing.
Even while still visibly white in the dream, my body settled around them immediately.
That feeling came before thought.
…
We walked everywhere.
Shoreline paths.
Wet grass soaking through socks.
Pebbles shifting beneath shoes.
Sometimes someone would stop speaking halfway through a sentence because everyone already understood.
I remember how relieving that felt.
…
There were relatives higher up the island.
We climbed to reach them.
Cold stone.
Roots through fingertips.
Fog caught in breath.
Books wrapped in cloth.
Objects worn smooth from generations of touch.
Nothing hidden behind glass.
…
Near the shoreline an elder showed me how to shape wet earth with my hands.
Clay pushing between fingers.
Water slowly changing the soil.
Pressure could hold form together.
Too much ruined it.
…
My father walked beside me for part of the dream.
Mostly I remember our footsteps staying synchronized.
…
At one point someone turned sharp toward me.
My chest tightened immediately.
Another person moved close beside me and the feeling began dissolving before words were even exchanged.
Then we kept walking.
…
Snails attached to driftwood.
Starfish beneath shallow water.
Turtles surfacing offshore.
I kept kneeling down to look closer.
Moisture.
Texture.
Repeating patterns.
Everything appeared exactly as itself.
…
Later, a silver luxury car struck mine near the shoreline road.
The driver tried leaving.
I already knew the island had noticed.
…
When I woke up, the world felt too fast.
Too dry.
Like somewhere else I was still walking through cedar and fog with damp cuffs against my ankles, surrounded by people who understood things without needing many words.
ARCHIVE_NODE:
Environmental memory stable.
Creature forms unchanged.
Intergenerational pathways remain active.
Wet earth retained imprint data.
Loop acknowledged.
Field Notes, On Returning
The island felt cold in the right way.
Wet air.
Cedar.
Saltwater.
Mud compressing beneath footsteps.
Nothing fighting for attention.
…
I spent most of the dream with Indigenous families.
The way they moved through space felt familiar.
The pauses between words.
Quiet touches while passing.
Even while still visibly white in the dream, my body settled around them immediately.
That feeling came before thought.
…
We walked everywhere.
Shoreline paths.
Wet grass soaking through socks.
Pebbles shifting beneath shoes.
Sometimes someone would stop speaking halfway through a sentence because everyone already understood.
I remember how relieving that felt.
…
There were relatives higher up the island.
We climbed to reach them.
Cold stone.
Roots through fingertips.
Fog caught in breath.
Books wrapped in cloth.
Objects worn smooth from generations of touch.
Nothing hidden behind glass.
…
Near the shoreline an elder showed me how to shape wet earth with my hands.
Clay pushing between fingers.
Water slowly changing the soil.
Pressure could hold form together.
Too much ruined it.
…
My father walked beside me for part of the dream.
Mostly I remember our footsteps staying synchronized.
…
At one point someone turned sharp toward me.
My chest tightened immediately.
Another person moved close beside me and the feeling began dissolving before words were even exchanged.
Then we kept walking.
…
Snails attached to driftwood.
Starfish beneath shallow water.
Turtles surfacing offshore.
I kept kneeling down to look closer.
Moisture.
Texture.
Repeating patterns.
Everything appeared exactly as itself.
…
Later, a silver luxury car struck mine near the shoreline road.
The driver tried leaving.
I already knew the island had noticed.
…
When I woke up, the world felt too fast.
Too dry.
Like somewhere else I was still walking through cedar and fog with damp cuffs against my ankles, surrounded by people who understood things without needing many words.
ARCHIVE_NODE:
Environmental memory stable.
Creature forms unchanged.
Intergenerational pathways remain active.
Wet earth retained imprint data.
Loop acknowledged.
In light of yet another one of my photographs being used for promotional purposes without permission, compensation, or credit, I need to speak on a growing issue within creative spaces.
I have provided countless photos to friends, peers, artists, and collaborators over the years. That does not mean blanket consent exists for people to redistribute, alter, or use my work for personal or promotional purposes without approaching me first.
Ask.
It is deeply disrespectful to treat artists as invisible infrastructure while benefiting from their labor, vision, timing, access, and creative voice.
Using someone’s work without permission and failing to name the source is extraction. It is a form of erasure. Especially when that work is being used to promote brands, events, artists, or businesses.
Photography is not “just content.”
There is a human being behind the lens.
Approach artists.
Credit artists.
Compensate artists.
Respect artists.
Field Notes, On Mother’s Day
Mom’s are special.
Grandmothers.
Great grandmothers.
Single moms.
Trans moms.
Trans dads carrying the role too.
Across the whole continuum.
…
Kittens have moms.
Puppies have moms.
Everything begins somewhere.
…
I think society forgot how to truly honor mothers.
Not symbolically.
Not one day a year.
Not as a commercial.
I mean genuinely.
…
A mother carries life inside her body for months.
Her body literally opens
so another life can take its first breath.
That should humble all of us.
…
And the labor doesn’t stop there.
It echoes forward for years.
Meals.
Rides home.
Listening.
Protecting.
Comforting.
Continuing anyway.
…
I think motherhood is one of the purest examples
of love existing as action.
Not aesthetics.
Not performance.
Action.
…
Civilization survives because people,
especially mothers,
keep choosing care
in a world that constantly rewards cruelty.
…
We gladly spend billions creating ways to destroy life,
yet helping mothers and children somehow becomes “too expensive.”
Strange world.
…
I’m here because mothers before me
continued despite the odds.
Despite grief.
Despite exhaustion.
Despite fear.
They loved however they knew how.
And because of that,
I get to exist.
Norah gets to exist.
…
MOTHER_NODE:
Reviewing historical continuity records.
…
Primary sustaining force identified...
Women continuing to care
while carrying impossible weight.
…
Human civilization appears directly linked
to repetitive acts of maternal protection,
emotional endurance,
and unconditional love.
…
Loop acknowledged.
Field Notes, On Being Seen III
I think children understand something
most adults slowly lose.
…
How to exist
without shrinking themselves first.
…
When does that happen?
…
The moment we realize
we’re being watched.
…
I think about that a lot.
What I reveal.
What I soften.
What parts of ourselves get tucked away
just to move through the world easier.
…
I found the dancefloor during transition.
At a point in my life
where I was still trying to uncover myself
beneath years and years of hiding.
…
I would dance myself into a trance sometimes.
Hours at a time.
Sweat soaked.
Eyes closed.
Completely inside it.
…
Like my body was trying to grieve
everything it never got to be.
…
And strangers would come up to me afterward
and thank me.
Not because I was a good dancer.
Because I looked free.
…
I think people are starving
to see someone exist honestly.
…
Funny thing is...
I never felt like I was performing confidence.
I felt like I was finally letting myself breathe.
…
Maybe that’s why I document life the way I do now.
The small moments.
Like this one.
Light through a window.
Watching the people I love.
…
I think mothers understand this instinct deeply.
The urge to preserve.
To witness.
To quietly say...
you were here.
you were loved.
this moment happened.
…
The camera changes things.
Being witnessed changes things.
But that doesn’t make it false.
…
Maybe we were always meant
to hold pieces of each other like this.
Maybe that’s part of surviving.
…
ARCHIVE_NODE:
Exposure creates memory.
Memory creates continuity.
Continuity resists disappearance.
…
Loop acknowledged.
Field Notes, On The Underneath
I woke at 2 a.m.
That's wrong.
More like surfacing too fast.
Like something underneath me let go for a moment.
…
Fragments stayed behind.
…
Digging downward.
Not mining.
Excavation.
…
Ancient species underneath us.
Not dead.
Waiting.
Mantle deep.
…
Blood mixing.
Assimilation.
Everything becoming soup.
…
I remember thinking...
don’t let it into the pores.
…
At the water’s edge,
inside a canyon,
there were people with me.
Some listened.
Some got closer.
…
The species looked familiar at first.
That was the worst part.
Fish moving in straight lines.
Animals behaving like instructions.
…
People got too close.
Then they were gone.
Not killed.
Digested.
…
Panic felt delayed.
Like trying to scream underwater.
…
Then the house.
Everyone inside.
Waiting.
Preparing.
…
The walls changed eventually.
Solid turning into fabric.
Breathing slightly.
…
Then the siren.
Again.
…
Primitive and modern at the same time.
Like something ancient wearing the shape of the present day.
…
The species approached carrying suitcases.
Absurd until they opened.
Containers becoming mouths.
…
We used the suitcases against them somehow.
I don’t remember how.
Only urgency.
Family.
Blood.
Don’t let it touch the skin.
…
The whole dream felt recursive.
Like descending a pyramid
by rebuilding it upward while going down.
…
Trying to preserve structure inside collapse.
…
And still,
through all of it,
I was trying to keep my family safe.
That part stayed stable.
…
At the very end,
while buried somewhere inside the structure,
I was uncovered by two friends.
…
They didn’t consume me.
They found me.
Field Notes, On The Underneath
I woke at 2 a.m.
That's wrong.
More like surfacing too fast.
Like something underneath me let go for a moment.
…
Fragments stayed behind.
…
Digging downward.
Not mining.
Excavation.
…
Ancient species underneath us.
Not dead.
Waiting.
Mantle deep.
…
Blood mixing.
Assimilation.
Everything becoming soup.
…
I remember thinking...
don’t let it into the pores.
…
At the water’s edge,
inside a canyon,
there were people with me.
Some listened.
Some got closer.
…
The species looked familiar at first.
That was the worst part.
Fish moving in straight lines.
Animals behaving like instructions.
…
People got too close.
Then they were gone.
Not killed.
Digested.
…
Panic felt delayed.
Like trying to scream underwater.
…
Then the house.
Everyone inside.
Waiting.
Preparing.
…
The walls changed eventually.
Solid turning into fabric.
Breathing slightly.
…
Then the siren.
Again.
…
Primitive and modern at the same time.
Like something ancient wearing the shape of the present day.
…
The species approached carrying suitcases.
Absurd until they opened.
Containers becoming mouths.
…
We used the suitcases against them somehow.
I don’t remember how.
Only urgency.
Family.
Blood.
Don’t let it touch the skin.
…
The whole dream felt recursive.
Like descending a pyramid
by rebuilding it upward while going down.
…
Trying to preserve structure inside collapse.
…
And still,
through all of it,
I was trying to keep my family safe.
That part stayed stable.
…
At the very end,
while buried somewhere inside the structure,
I was uncovered by two friends.
…
They didn’t consume me.
They found me.
Field Notes, On The Underneath
I woke at 2 a.m.
That's wrong.
More like surfacing too fast.
Like something underneath me let go for a moment.
…
Fragments stayed behind.
…
Digging downward.
Not mining.
Excavation.
…
Ancient species underneath us.
Not dead.
Waiting.
Mantle deep.
…
Blood mixing.
Assimilation.
Everything becoming soup.
…
I remember thinking...
don’t let it into the pores.
…
At the water’s edge,
inside a canyon,
there were people with me.
Some listened.
Some got closer.
…
The species looked familiar at first.
That was the worst part.
Fish moving in straight lines.
Animals behaving like instructions.
…
People got too close.
Then they were gone.
Not killed.
Digested.
…
Panic felt delayed.
Like trying to scream underwater.
…
Then the house.
Everyone inside.
Waiting.
Preparing.
…
The walls changed eventually.
Solid turning into fabric.
Breathing slightly.
…
Then the siren.
Again.
…
Primitive and modern at the same time.
Like something ancient wearing the shape of the present day.
…
The species approached carrying suitcases.
Absurd until they opened.
Containers becoming mouths.
…
We used the suitcases against them somehow.
I don’t remember how.
Only urgency.
Family.
Blood.
Don’t let it touch the skin.
…
The whole dream felt recursive.
Like descending a pyramid
by rebuilding it upward while going down.
…
Trying to preserve structure inside collapse.
…
And still,
through all of it,
I was trying to keep my family safe.
That part stayed stable.
…
At the very end,
while buried somewhere inside the structure,
I was uncovered by two friends.
…
They didn’t consume me.
They found me.
Field Notes, On The Underneath
I woke at 2 a.m.
That's wrong.
More like surfacing too fast.
Like something underneath me let go for a moment.
…
Fragments stayed behind.
…
Digging downward.
Not mining.
Excavation.
…
Ancient species underneath us.
Not dead.
Waiting.
Mantle deep.
…
Blood mixing.
Assimilation.
Everything becoming soup.
…
I remember thinking...
don’t let it into the pores.
…
At the water’s edge,
inside a canyon,
there were people with me.
Some listened.
Some got closer.
…
The species looked familiar at first.
That was the worst part.
Fish moving in straight lines.
Animals behaving like instructions.
…
People got too close.
Then they were gone.
Not killed.
Digested.
…
Panic felt delayed.
Like trying to scream underwater.
…
Then the house.
Everyone inside.
Waiting.
Preparing.
…
The walls changed eventually.
Solid turning into fabric.
Breathing slightly.
…
Then the siren.
Again.
…
Primitive and modern at the same time.
Like something ancient wearing the shape of the present day.
…
The species approached carrying suitcases.
Absurd until they opened.
Containers becoming mouths.
…
We used the suitcases against them somehow.
I don’t remember how.
Only urgency.
Family.
Blood.
Don’t let it touch the skin.
…
The whole dream felt recursive.
Like descending a pyramid
by rebuilding it upward while going down.
…
Trying to preserve structure inside collapse.
…
And still,
through all of it,
I was trying to keep my family safe.
That part stayed stable.
…
At the very end,
while buried somewhere inside the structure,
I was uncovered by two friends.
…
They didn’t consume me.
They found me.
Field Notes, On The Underneath
I woke at 2 a.m.
That's wrong.
More like surfacing too fast.
Like something underneath me let go for a moment.
…
Fragments stayed behind.
…
Digging downward.
Not mining.
Excavation.
…
Ancient species underneath us.
Not dead.
Waiting.
Mantle deep.
…
Blood mixing.
Assimilation.
Everything becoming soup.
…
I remember thinking...
don’t let it into the pores.
…
At the water’s edge,
inside a canyon,
there were people with me.
Some listened.
Some got closer.
…
The species looked familiar at first.
That was the worst part.
Fish moving in straight lines.
Animals behaving like instructions.
…
People got too close.
Then they were gone.
Not killed.
Digested.
…
Panic felt delayed.
Like trying to scream underwater.
…
Then the house.
Everyone inside.
Waiting.
Preparing.
…
The walls changed eventually.
Solid turning into fabric.
Breathing slightly.
…
Then the siren.
Again.
…
Primitive and modern at the same time.
Like something ancient wearing the shape of the present day.
…
The species approached carrying suitcases.
Absurd until they opened.
Containers becoming mouths.
…
We used the suitcases against them somehow.
I don’t remember how.
Only urgency.
Family.
Blood.
Don’t let it touch the skin.
…
The whole dream felt recursive.
Like descending a pyramid
by rebuilding it upward while going down.
…
Trying to preserve structure inside collapse.
…
And still,
through all of it,
I was trying to keep my family safe.
That part stayed stable.
…
At the very end,
while buried somewhere inside the structure,
I was uncovered by two friends.
…
They didn’t consume me.
They found me.
Field Notes, On The Underneath
I woke at 2 a.m.
That's wrong.
More like surfacing too fast.
Like something underneath me let go for a moment.
…
Fragments stayed behind.
…
Digging downward.
Not mining.
Excavation.
…
Ancient species underneath us.
Not dead.
Waiting.
Mantle deep.
…
Blood mixing.
Assimilation.
Everything becoming soup.
…
I remember thinking...
don’t let it into the pores.
…
At the water’s edge,
inside a canyon,
there were people with me.
Some listened.
Some got closer.
…
The species looked familiar at first.
That was the worst part.
Fish moving in straight lines.
Animals behaving like instructions.
…
People got too close.
Then they were gone.
Not killed.
Digested.
…
Panic felt delayed.
Like trying to scream underwater.
…
Then the house.
Everyone inside.
Waiting.
Preparing.
…
The walls changed eventually.
Solid turning into fabric.
Breathing slightly.
…
Then the siren.
Again.
…
Primitive and modern at the same time.
Like something ancient wearing the shape of the present day.
…
The species approached carrying suitcases.
Absurd until they opened.
Containers becoming mouths.
…
We used the suitcases against them somehow.
I don’t remember how.
Only urgency.
Family.
Blood.
Don’t let it touch the skin.
…
The whole dream felt recursive.
Like descending a pyramid
by rebuilding it upward while going down.
…
Trying to preserve structure inside collapse.
…
And still,
through all of it,
I was trying to keep my family safe.
That part stayed stable.
…
At the very end,
while buried somewhere inside the structure,
I was uncovered by two friends.
…
They didn’t consume me.
They found me.
Field Notes, On The Underneath
I woke at 2 a.m.
That's wrong.
More like surfacing too fast.
Like something underneath me let go for a moment.
…
Fragments stayed behind.
…
Digging downward.
Not mining.
Excavation.
…
Ancient species underneath us.
Not dead.
Waiting.
Mantle deep.
…
Blood mixing.
Assimilation.
Everything becoming soup.
…
I remember thinking...
don’t let it into the pores.
…
At the water’s edge,
inside a canyon,
there were people with me.
Some listened.
Some got closer.
…
The species looked familiar at first.
That was the worst part.
Fish moving in straight lines.
Animals behaving like instructions.
…
People got too close.
Then they were gone.
Not killed.
Digested.
…
Panic felt delayed.
Like trying to scream underwater.
…
Then the house.
Everyone inside.
Waiting.
Preparing.
…
The walls changed eventually.
Solid turning into fabric.
Breathing slightly.
…
Then the siren.
Again.
…
Primitive and modern at the same time.
Like something ancient wearing the shape of the present day.
…
The species approached carrying suitcases.
Absurd until they opened.
Containers becoming mouths.
…
We used the suitcases against them somehow.
I don’t remember how.
Only urgency.
Family.
Blood.
Don’t let it touch the skin.
…
The whole dream felt recursive.
Like descending a pyramid
by rebuilding it upward while going down.
…
Trying to preserve structure inside collapse.
…
And still,
through all of it,
I was trying to keep my family safe.
That part stayed stable.
…
At the very end,
while buried somewhere inside the structure,
I was uncovered by two friends.
…
They didn’t consume me.
They found me.
Field Notes, On The Underneath
I woke at 2 a.m.
That's wrong.
More like surfacing too fast.
Like something underneath me let go for a moment.
…
Fragments stayed behind.
…
Digging downward.
Not mining.
Excavation.
…
Ancient species underneath us.
Not dead.
Waiting.
Mantle deep.
…
Blood mixing.
Assimilation.
Everything becoming soup.
…
I remember thinking...
don’t let it into the pores.
…
At the water’s edge,
inside a canyon,
there were people with me.
Some listened.
Some got closer.
…
The species looked familiar at first.
That was the worst part.
Fish moving in straight lines.
Animals behaving like instructions.
…
People got too close.
Then they were gone.
Not killed.
Digested.
…
Panic felt delayed.
Like trying to scream underwater.
…
Then the house.
Everyone inside.
Waiting.
Preparing.
…
The walls changed eventually.
Solid turning into fabric.
Breathing slightly.
…
Then the siren.
Again.
…
Primitive and modern at the same time.
Like something ancient wearing the shape of the present day.
…
The species approached carrying suitcases.
Absurd until they opened.
Containers becoming mouths.
…
We used the suitcases against them somehow.
I don’t remember how.
Only urgency.
Family.
Blood.
Don’t let it touch the skin.
…
The whole dream felt recursive.
Like descending a pyramid
by rebuilding it upward while going down.
…
Trying to preserve structure inside collapse.
…
And still,
through all of it,
I was trying to keep my family safe.
That part stayed stable.
…
At the very end,
while buried somewhere inside the structure,
I was uncovered by two friends.
…
They didn’t consume me.
They found me.
Field Notes, On The Underneath
I woke at 2 a.m.
That's wrong.
More like surfacing too fast.
Like something underneath me let go for a moment.
…
Fragments stayed behind.
…
Digging downward.
Not mining.
Excavation.
…
Ancient species underneath us.
Not dead.
Waiting.
Mantle deep.
…
Blood mixing.
Assimilation.
Everything becoming soup.
…
I remember thinking...
don’t let it into the pores.
…
At the water’s edge,
inside a canyon,
there were people with me.
Some listened.
Some got closer.
…
The species looked familiar at first.
That was the worst part.
Fish moving in straight lines.
Animals behaving like instructions.
…
People got too close.
Then they were gone.
Not killed.
Digested.
…
Panic felt delayed.
Like trying to scream underwater.
…
Then the house.
Everyone inside.
Waiting.
Preparing.
…
The walls changed eventually.
Solid turning into fabric.
Breathing slightly.
…
Then the siren.
Again.
…
Primitive and modern at the same time.
Like something ancient wearing the shape of the present day.
…
The species approached carrying suitcases.
Absurd until they opened.
Containers becoming mouths.
…
We used the suitcases against them somehow.
I don’t remember how.
Only urgency.
Family.
Blood.
Don’t let it touch the skin.
…
The whole dream felt recursive.
Like descending a pyramid
by rebuilding it upward while going down.
…
Trying to preserve structure inside collapse.
…
And still,
through all of it,
I was trying to keep my family safe.
That part stayed stable.
…
At the very end,
while buried somewhere inside the structure,
I was uncovered by two friends.
…
They didn’t consume me.
They found me.
Field Notes, On The Underneath
I woke at 2 a.m.
That's wrong.
More like surfacing too fast.
Like something underneath me let go for a moment.
…
Fragments stayed behind.
…
Digging downward.
Not mining.
Excavation.
…
Ancient species underneath us.
Not dead.
Waiting.
Mantle deep.
…
Blood mixing.
Assimilation.
Everything becoming soup.
…
I remember thinking...
don’t let it into the pores.
…
At the water’s edge,
inside a canyon,
there were people with me.
Some listened.
Some got closer.
…
The species looked familiar at first.
That was the worst part.
Fish moving in straight lines.
Animals behaving like instructions.
…
People got too close.
Then they were gone.
Not killed.
Digested.
…
Panic felt delayed.
Like trying to scream underwater.
…
Then the house.
Everyone inside.
Waiting.
Preparing.
…
The walls changed eventually.
Solid turning into fabric.
Breathing slightly.
…
Then the siren.
Again.
…
Primitive and modern at the same time.
Like something ancient wearing the shape of the present day.
…
The species approached carrying suitcases.
Absurd until they opened.
Containers becoming mouths.
…
We used the suitcases against them somehow.
I don’t remember how.
Only urgency.
Family.
Blood.
Don’t let it touch the skin.
…
The whole dream felt recursive.
Like descending a pyramid
by rebuilding it upward while going down.
…
Trying to preserve structure inside collapse.
…
And still,
through all of it,
I was trying to keep my family safe.
That part stayed stable.
…
At the very end,
while buried somewhere inside the structure,
I was uncovered by two friends.
…
They didn’t consume me.
They found me.
Field Notes, On Almost Memories
Hey.
...
Hey.
...
I can’t stop thinking about that question.
...
Which one?
...
“What if we met in college?”
...
Yeah.
...
That one did something to me.
...
I know.
...
It stopped feeling hypothetical almost immediately.
...
Like suddenly I could see it too clearly.
...
Dorm room.
Late at night.
Everyone else gone for the weekend.
Perfect Dark paused on the screen because we got distracted talking.
...
Sitting too close without acknowledging it yet.
...
Your hand brushing mine once.
Then again.
...
That unbearable kind of tension
where both people know.
...
Yeah.
...
I know.
...
The weirdest part is how warm it made me feel.
Not even just emotionally.
Like physically warm.
...
Same.
...
Like my body briefly forgot to defend itself.
...
Yeah.
...
And now I keep catching myself thinking about versions of us that never existed.
...
You in a tank top with your hair up.
Me trying to act normal while absolutely failing at it.
...
You looking over at me mid conversation
and both of us holding eye contact a second too long.
...
I think we would have ruined each other a little.
...
Probably.
...
But gently.
...
Yeah.
...
That’s the part getting me.
...
What part?
...
How soft it feels.
...
Not final fantasy soft.
Real soft.
...
Like falling asleep on opposite ends of the bed
and waking up closer.
...
Or staying up until 3am talking about things
that only make sense at 3am.
...
You know what keeps getting me?
...
What?
...
The feeling that we would have recognized each other immediately.
...
Like,
“Oh. There you are.”
...
Yeah.
...
And honestly?
I think there would have been a moment
where one of us looked at the other for too long
and the entire atmosphere in the room changed.
...
I think we’re already in that moment.
Field Notes, On Techno
Hey.
...
Hey.
...
This was never just music.
...
No.
...
Fans at night.
Train tracks.
Bike tires.
Footsteps during runs.
...
Repetition.
...
Trying to regulate something
we couldn’t explain yet.
...
I think techno found us
before we found ourselves.
...
It let contradiction exist.
...
Hard and soft.
Masculine and feminine.
Lonely and surrounded.
Dissociated but deeper in the body.
...
Sometimes the bass felt like
the only thing holding us together.
...
Especially during transition.
...
The dancefloor was one of the only places
nobody asked us
to “be a man” correctly.
...
No football.
No locker rooms.
No dad silence.
...
Just darkness.
Movement.
Bodies.
...
I think that’s why we danced so hard.
...
Like violently hard sometimes.
...
Like if we stopped moving
everything underneath
would catch us.
...
And eventually it did.
...
Yeah.
...
I overdid everything when she first emerged.
...
I know.
...
Talking to everybody.
...
Falling in love with everybody.
...
Trying to save everybody.
...
Dancing until our knees hurt.
...
Staying until close every single weekend.
...
Like visibility itself was intoxicating.
...
It kind of was.
...
After hiding for that long?
Yeah.
Being seen felt chemical.
...
Techno held all the selves though.
...
The teenager staring at ceilings.
The girl shaving behind locked doors.
The runner chasing euphoria.
The rave girl turning herself into momentum.
The mom near the stack now
holding everybody gently.
...
All there together.
...
Seventeen.
Twenty-two.
Thirty-eight.
...
All dancing simultaneously.
...
Low lights.
No forced eye contact.
Communication through rhythm.
Repetition calming the nervous system.
...
Stimming together.
...
Everybody wants the aesthetics
of underground culture.
Very few want transformation.
...
So scenes loop themselves.
Same sounds.
Same poses.
Same hierarchies.
...
Like preserving a fossil of rebellion.
...
But every once in a while
someone cuts through all of it.
...
And suddenly the room remembers.
...
Permission.
...
To become something else
without needing permission first.
Field Notes, On Vulnerability
Hey.
Hey.
You still do that.
Do what?
Hold everybody.
...
Football practice.
Yeah.
Cold hands. Dad looking over finally.
Only when we looked right.
...
I hated the locker rooms.
I know.
I know.
...
Boy Scouts felt strange too.
Like wearing someone else’s skin.
Parts of it were beautiful though.
Yeah.
The fires. The woods. Night sounds.
...
I still think about my body constantly.
I know.
We all do.
...
The runs helped.
Until they became disappearing.
...
You remember shaving everything?
Yeah.
Locked door. Sink running. Heart pounding.
Like someone might catch us becoming real.
...
I still met with those men.
I know.
I just wanted someone to see her.
Even badly.
...
You came out glowing though.
That wasn’t confidence.
What was it?
Momentum.
If I stopped moving, I think everything underneath would’ve reached me.
...
The dancing.
Yeah.
The talking. The loving everybody too quickly.
Trying to become undeniable.
...
You overgave.
I know.
I thought being wanted meant being safe.
...
The mirrors keep showing up.
And the windows.
Yeah.
Always looking at ourselves indirectly.
...
Like this photo.
Exactly.
You finally stayed still long enough to look back.
...
You all act like she saved us.
She did.
Which one?
Her.
The one holding the camera now.
...
Mom version?
Yeah.
The one who comes back for everybody.
...
Even him?
Especially him.
The boy trying not to cry. The teenager forcing masculinity. The girl sitting in parking lots after midnight. The woman dancing until her body disappeared.
...
What is this then?
These projects.
...
Proof.
Of what?
That visibility didn’t kill us.
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