About

A biography composed of two pieces.

Part: I

A familial history of an unborn brother:

They didn't have a name for my brother. His body was exhumed from my mother's womb a year or two before mine, dead. They didn't have a name for my brother, but he would have been my older brother. Or would he have been me; would the person that I am, would I have been joined with his body instead of the one which I currently inhabit?

One cannot be certain of such things, however, it is him who I think of as I write this text; an image that my vision never acquired clouding my mind- him, his memory and body rotting away somewhere in a hospital bed / bin in San Ysidro with my mother looking out a window and my father holding her hand, thumb rubbing gently and rocking back and forth along her wrist's surface.

Part II:

A condensed history of a self:

Born in the eighties. Grew up in the nineties. Attempted death by hanging, 2003. Failed. Rebirth soon thereafter. Left home age 17. Love my parents, love my family, love my friends, love her and love love. Lived in and wandered through the spaces of Europe, walking from Frankfurt to Paris. Left to help a falling sister in San Francisco from heartbreak and overdose. Moved to New York a year or so after. Fell in love with the city and a woman several years my senior. Entrenched myself in both. Two years later: abandoned both for work / wandering. Currently homeless, living everywhere, the warmth of a room surrounding me sometimes and other times the warmth of a work which I am carrying. Never not working.

Living in the spaces of a place where poverty murmurs constantly but the presence of people around me are anchors and pillars which ground and hold me up. I am grateful for everything. Fuck everything. I love you. Fuck everybody.

Don't look back.

“You are a person who creates with truth.”

- Werner Herzog in conversation with Jason Jaworski

New York, NY - 2007

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