Bloom

Spring is a vague season for me. As is the case with many others, my mood usually improves with the lengthening days
and new buds returning to dead branches, but it comes with an existential flavor much more visceral to me than that of
autumn. Seeing the life return to the world around me every year does more to erode the lines in my mind dividing being
from non-being and myself from everything else; I am just a small part of the system of organic material being used,
disassembled and put back together, but even my identity as a discrete part is called into question when I consider
something like the conjoining of two tree trunks or the small ecosystem of insects they might support, not unlike the
network of trillions of organisms in my digestive system that I host just as I depend on for my good health. I am equal
parts unsettled and exhilarated by the erasure of what separates me from my environment, and Bloom is a study in this
feeling—ideas morph into other ideas, lines come out of nothing and jump from instrument to instrument before
vanishing, and individual gestures are recontextualized into larger textures in the manner of the pulsating, yearning,
unending process of growth that the spring months bring back to the foreground of my life.