I live for that moment when I am dripping in blood, blindfolded, and naked under the watching eyes of the audience/participants. My mind is scrolling through queer theory, horror movies, ballet class, sexual encounters, performance intentions and suddenly I vanish. I am seeing, feeling, processing, and communicating through the language of performance, dance, and ritual. Maybe someone is taking an unflattering picture of my asshole, while another is connecting to the ideas of queer struggle while their date is zoning out on an altar of glittering bones and pointe shoes. By now my choreography, scores, and guidelines have been torn apart by the unknown. I trust the mystery, as spend all my time preparing for it. It keeps me honest. I am a performance artist.

(Everything comes in storms)