A room with shelves, speakers, a red rug, grow lights, strange lamps, and records growing out of the floor.

I've met trees that are a thousand years old, and stones that are infinitely older. How many cataclysms do we expect to survive? When a body is infected with a virus it fights back; the earth is trying to purge us; to shake us off; to burn us out. To kill us. Yesterday I walked down what remains of the street and didn't see a single other person. It's gotten quiet at night. There used to be the sounds of generators chugging through the dark, of thumping bass from some rigged-up cross-wired sound system tearing through the burn scars at night. There used to be sounds of yelling, shouting, screaming. Now there's only the occasional chorus of coyote howls echoing across the valley. Yesterday I walked down what remains of the street for a mile or more, and saw nobody. I'm glad I didn't. Maybe they've all gone, or maybe they've all died, or maybe they've just learned to hide in the day. The sun when it breaks through the smoke is something brutal and nefarious if you aren't prepared. My skin has grown hard and scaled and my face where the tears roll down is cracked and weeping. We all knew this was coming and yet we did nothing.

We May See a Great and Unrecognizable Future
Installation with objects, light, sound, and incense. 2011.

We May See a Great and Unrecognizable Future
Text, PDF. 2011.

another view of the room, plants and a lava lamp are visible. a pile of records encrusted with white crystaline growth. a close up view of the crystaline growth. a speaker with a plant on top, and racks of small water bottles wired together with copper wire. close up on the water bottles. a view into a small box or room lined with silver reflective material, containing a grow light hung over small red solo cups with soil.