1. Introduction

This is not a summary of my work. It’s an account of what I’ve found value in, the things I have come to care for through what I’ve made, what I’ve written about, and the many times I have failed.

I tend to begin with something that doesn’t quite fit. A mislabelled photograph. A platform that forgets. A structure that won’t hold. I’m drawn to things that are misaligned, if only to sit and observe them for a moment. To ask what they reveal about how we know, and what we choose to carry forward. Over time, that way of sitting with misalignment changed how I think: from sequence to constellation.

Ideas as nodes. Memory as a graph. A thought here lights up a thought there, unexpectedly. I return to Sebald’s Austerlitz, Carson’s Nox, and sometimes Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. These don’t follow a clear line. They drift. They fracture. Like the protagonist of Disco Elysium, a chemically-wrecked amnesiac who moves through the world with nihilistic rapture. Like Outer Wilds, where progress emerges not from tasks, but from wondering where to go next. Or, when Mulholland Drive, dissolves in its own plot. I find that syntax in music when Carrie & Lowell unravels memory in delicate, hesitant fragments; Or, when To Pimp a Butterfly builds structure through ruptures in its register.

None of these works move cleanly. Their structure isn’t argument; it is atmosphere. They don’t guide. They let you gather. I prefer partial arrangements, annotated gaps, things half-held. That sensibility has shaped not just what I return to, but what I try to make. Some of my projects are public. Others are personal. Some are finished. Most are not. I’m less interested in completion than in care, in the attention one need to keep something legible.