my bed I know it’s been a while since I wrote. It took more than a minute to come back from Ireland — from our Queer Disabled Visions residency at Live Art Ireland. It took a long time to recover. Then the holidays came, and back to weekly therapy, which makes me unwell. And with them, the news. So much news. Especially for those of us who are tuned in — tuned in through social media, through friends, through our empathic bodies, through the ancestors, through the land, throu

Self Portrait at Live Art Ireland The title of this program, organized by Live Art Ireland — “Cultivating Queer Disabled Visions” —suggests a space where disabled and queer people can imagine otherwise, together. A space where we might rest, dream, and experiment with new ways of being in relation to land, to each other, and to our own bodies. But cultivating vision, especially for disabled and chronically ill people, is not just about inspiration. It’s about infrastructure.

"Cultivating Queer Disabled Visions" Live Art Ireland I just finished a month-long residency at Live Art Ireland , part of a program titled “Cultivating Queer Disabled Visions.” The description sounded like the kind of program I’ve been searching for as an Indigenous, queer, disabled artist: A mentored residency where queer, disabled visions would be “cultivated” through environmental storytelling and embodied practice. A space where we would “discover pathways to resilience

Monte Cofano, Sicily I remember it first as a feeling: falling into a deep hole. Not a clean, empty drop, but a tunnel of rock, closing in on all sides. My body ricocheted off the sharp, uneven walls like a pinball, slammed downward by a gravity that felt merciless and precise. Every part of me was getting beaten—inside and out. The strange thing was, I wasn’t entirely  in  pain. I couldn’t inhabit it, couldn’t name it correctly. But I could see it in the damage done to my bo