I often think about place – derived from the Latin word platea meaning "open space" – as I wander to my edge in this world's travel. I believe in authenticity over identity, push pins unnecessary. While I value origin, I move forward with the joy of exploration. In 2012, I moved North. I found home in the mountains of Vermont. I never thought I would leave Maryland after all my parents spoke of finding love where they were raised in Michigan, displacing my sense of the word. Where is home? Are we there yet? I listened to their map: the yard, where to go for the holidays, and furthermore the logistics of economy. Define community, family. I moved anyway. When I entered a culture of endlessly colorful landscapes, seasonal pronunciation, I questioned artists illustrating nature, yet here I am, years later, waning with the wilt of a flower stem and trying to meet it at its movement, paintbrush in hand, evermore.
In 2014, I pursued a deeper path of perspective. I visited friends around America before flying to Asia. For months, I felt culture shock and uninhibited happiness and fear and free fall and deserving food, and myself with another. Out of money, I collapsed back into my past. We're almost there. To Michigan, to New Hampshire, to Vermont, to New Hampshire and seeing Vermont as I was before spending the summer of 2015 on an island off of Washington's most coast. In the end, I turned the northwest tip of the country in a kayak only to be met by the breath of a humpback whale – megaptera novaengliae meaning "big winged New Englander" – redefining my experience of existence.
In many years of flight, I had never honestly road-tripped so I decided to spend 5000+ miles or kilometers on the road in one month in two different boats (a slick car named Starship Enterprise, and the other, Gertie, my truck). The first two weeks of October 2015 learned me and a good friend a tent and a campfire through British Columbia and Alberta provinces for the sight of any national park that would keep us cozy and grizzly-free. The second half of the month folded into the past as I revisited Yosemite, the Redwoods, and the Sequoias alike with my partner and his great love, his family. These words here, other than lantern journal scribble, may be the only place for them now and that is okay. A moment does not exist where I would deny gratitude for beauty and kindness. At any point I find hope in the embodiment of what is enough.
My search continues while finding a green house in Portland, Oregon with good friends. Four boys from New England, another from Asia, and I take on shelter and survival.
All the while – I studied my masters in poetry of all things, and professionally speaking I seek a career in making art accessible to all. I envision myself to have some fancy title as a multidisciplinary curator of sorts while curling up in my future studio with my future cat and a warm cup of tea maybe talking out loud the parts I find interesting in a story with someone who would do the same. I am an editor formally. Otherwise: artist and writer. Publication is only a goal. And if I don't end up teaching, I'll start a school.