When uncertainty is a norm. When distractions are fabricated systematically to be blinded. When religion, economy, and politics unify under one umbrella to gain power. When faith becomes doubt. When one feels tiny in the tide of time. When you are not given a chance to fathom one event after the other. When statistics are real people with flesh and blood. When you hope to jump time, in the hope of this becoming history. To only fear what comes ahead. I find myself little and my practice becomes a pastime. The passing of time to run away and cocoon in a task of repeating again and again as if churning order in Chaos.
I make debris. I mark time with continuing lines and words. I write. And continue to write. Like communicating, like archiving, like measuring, like evolving, like erroring, like counting. This series of works that contain text have no end no beginning. They are all part of multiple ongoing series.
There is no single infinity, there is infinity in every direction we look.