A banjo player walks into a pit orchestra. Spends fifteen years reading bodies from below the stage. Learns that audiences do not watch performances. They undergo them.

A chronic illness rearranges the terms. The body that played eight shows a week can no longer be taken for granted. What the body learns, it keeps. Not every inscription can be erased. This becomes the central claim.

ITP at NYU. Then the pandemic. The thesis work at the Chelsea Hotel, built during lockdown: rooms that remember who entered them, corridors that teach the body to navigate by proprioceptive memory rather than sight.

Twenty-two essays written across three years. Not a collection. A closed theoretical system. Presence as sensorimotor contract. Ritual as non-optimizable meaning. Irreversibility as the terminal constraint. The manifesto ends where it ends: build accordingly, or do not build at all.

Now at the Fashion Institute of Technology, training faculty across twenty departments to retool creative pedagogy for the age of machine agents. Not preparing them to survive it. Preparing them to lead it.

The available containers did not fit. Academic departments, corporate labs, startup pitches. I built the containers myself.