“I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop.” –Jack Kerouac
I cannot remember it all.
Imagine the countless hours of intake that will never possibly be experienced: the eyes of every human on a single subway ride in uptown Manhattan, the number of needles on a Ponderosa pine in the Pecos, the momentary dune patterns in the gypsum sand in the Tularosa basin. Imagine the infinitesimal number of points, atoms and sources none of which are ever a starting point. After all, the extremity of a vector is always oriented towards some other end.
All of this infinity may seem to be a type of limit. Do we diminish the number of connections in order to reach at last the sanctuary of the self?
Or is it, as William James demonstrated, that by multiplying the connections with the outside that there is some chance to grasp how the inside is being furnished?
This body of work considers the limit of infinity by attempting to bring a fictionalized multiplicity into view.