Su Wu: Alma, what is it?

Alma: My work is as stubborn as I am, I cannot tell you.

Su Wu: But don’t you worry you will be misunderstood, with every work “Not Yet Titled”?

Alma: Perhaps, but then you might look, and move beyond the legible into the recesses of your body, and the feelings you hold there. Here is the deflated moment after cruelty expended, and here is power, in truths and truths withheld. Here is cancellation deployed as a physical act and in moral justification, and here is a repair. There are those who watch you and those who refuse to see you. Yet still are the moons rising over ruins, and the breeze that curves around edges, the backs of knees and approval, and here: here is the biggest risk of my life except for all the other ones, which is not timed calculation but necessity when you don’t have other options for survival, and I do not think I am the only one who understands this. These are spaces of violence and wonder, intimate notations of vulnerability, and containing within the same span as precarity the possibilities of transcendence, in these still moving, tensile works of becoming. Here is harm, you pieces of stone, here is your courage. I do not think I will be misunderstood by anyone who has ever been alive, or ever wanted to be.

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