I create books. I make paper. I tend coreopsis, indigo, sunflowers, and flax.
I write with a pencil.
I print on Vandercooks.
I sew end bands; I mend; I case-in with board and cloth.
I carve and strop; I pare and strop.
Mason Jars among my books:
Indigo sludge
Cicada shells
Rabbits in formaldehyde
My mother’s collection of porcelain cats
I collage images, objects, materials, and texts. I embrace
hybrid forms of writing. I seek
new ways of presenting old literary concepts. I challenge
canons
and taste-making
and other forms of literarily-induced hegemonic oppressions. I invest
in finding collaborators who share
my interest in debunking the myth of singular authorship,
collaborators with stories to tell,
collaborators tickled by black ink on white paper. I write prose with line
breaks and screenplays about poverty and mental illness in Appalachia.
I make novels of unbound folios.
I letterpress print messages by millennials, interrogations of the intersection of sex work and disability politics from the frontlines of the whore revolution, and post cards for Southern queers.
I try to live, print, and bind
by example. I never learn
a skill without passing along
the knowledge. There are actual human body
parts in my body
of work.