right now ¼ of my apartment is filled with stacks, bins, columns, and carefully balanced see-saws of recyclables (bottles, shrink wrap, tissue paper, blister packs, boxes like boxcars boxcars boxcars), for a sculpture project called */detritus. they block out the sun. some pieces are spray painted in gold or silver; wood vices hang from lamps; broken furniture is wrapped in yarns and plastics and tiny triangles of fabric ... part quipu, part computer code. where the actual piece is slowly emerging from the ground, when viewed from high up, an awkward motherboard arises. the clutter makes me crazy. the organic breeding, rhizomic spreading of the clutter and what these objects accidentally betray of us makes my partner ever-anxious, if only mildly so. i never know how i feel about living with and in it, and that being a part of the making.

from {measurable angle [is to (meaning as periphery) is to] tide}

by kristin cerda