A note from March 11th
The tragedy of our experiences are that they end. We are stuck with that reality, save for the moments where we are able to catch a glimpse of what is infinite that lies underneath our lives. Or at least that's what I've been told. I've been told that this is a thing and its definitely possible that I've experienced a short and simple fleeting moment of infinity. We probably all have. 
But we have sunken into our experiences. That enough seems apparent to me. Winter makes that obvious. We try if we can to sink into comforts, providing that necessary and temporary warmth; into something that feels cozy and infinite. Yet that is not the case. This is fleeting too. And within some inner trouble that can only be heard in the silence of snow, what is apparent is that our lives are made up of moments separated from each other in memory, yet somehow contiguous in experience. Indescribable maybe. That's the attempt of this piece though, to visualize that, and I think it's a pursuit worthy of Winter and of life as well.
(Young aspens left behind by a hungry moose, naturally dyed cotton towels, photos of winter cut up and stitched together)
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