jul(17/18).2022 | aachen, de

Continuous thought on the disparate nature of ideas. Webs tied, anchored in thin air by sheer will alone. The sun sets to my right and fairy lights through tree lines hold what sun once was, stretched and swaying in the same patterns the fire took day for day for day. Snapshots.

stills from Micah Weber's No stories can be told - all the deals have already been made.

Animation (3:54 min) 2015



The combination of poetry, film, and space. Stillness and noticing.

Do Ho Suh's Home Within Home Within Home Within Home Within Home

fabric, 12m x 15m, 2013




I've reached out to Fee, trying to find a video of a performance of someone who spoke as the voice of god but left her voice unchanged, making god more personable and human than most representations of god's voice. Blessings be, Fee gave me more! Links galore!






Laurie Anderson's "O Superman"

I have almost no doubt the video I had in mind was of Laurie Anderson. This is not it, but I will continue searching for what I have in mind.





Possibilities of similar effects with TouchDesigner or MaxMSP for video form?


Opacity! Note to self: come back to this, preferably printed to write on with pen.


Hito Steyerl, How Not to be Seen: A Fucking Didactic Educational .MOV File, 2013


Black Futures: An Ode to Freedom Summer

as well as the recommendation to look into Afro-futurist re-imagining of past to unlock different potential futures.

I will need to dive into these further. Most have been dropped here as a repository, to be returned to at a later time.

jul(16/17).2022 | aachen, de

The mind is not a linear thing, hence its jumbles. If I roped out my brain to measure it from one end to another the way infinitesimally smaller measurements attempt to lay out coastlines into infinity, I would simply stop functioning. Are memories physical location or (more likely) simply the conversation between neurons? Conversation. I was thinking of more ideas earlier, bashing that spaghetti-slosh in a skull against itself to try to compact it into something to be pushed out of the holes of my head much the way I'd like to think hair is made. Play-dough through strainers.

That might make a good password. StrainMyBrainThroughLikePlayDough. FiveWordsIsBetterThanAStringOfNonsenseLettersAndNumbers. LineBreaksAreForPeopleAndNotForPasswordsTheSpaceKeyIsUnlikeMeAndUnlikeYouWeAreTryingToBeDenserThanTheRobotsCanUnderstand.

My mother raised my siblings and I to be wary of any type of online presence, to look away when she typed in passwords, and to cover the four groups of four digits with a thumb when not immediately being read in a hushed murmur and then read backwards to double-check. I wait until the last possible second to write my social security number on a W-9, just in case I lose it beforehand and inadvertently lose some of myself or my "freedoms" in the process. I am ever-fearful of putting too much of myself online and losing privacy. Perhaps that is a value I held over from Germany. Street View there is absent. Cash is still king. I am continually rejecting all cookies on the websites I visit, and even then noticing that Google still lists an assumed location at the bottom of its search page based on my IP address. It is 90 km wrong.

Building a fake self would be some idea. Creating a space where people simply exist. Bludgeoning a data-collection software (aka any software, really) with so much false information that I essentially scribble out my name, better than I could erase it. If we're supposed to make "I care" statements, I care about privacy. And I'd be interested in creating work to obscure, to hold the paranoia of being watched and witnessed even in no wrongdoing and so covering all tracks with a bucket of wildseed to grow some better future in the space where we walked.

Speaking of obscuring where we have walked. Family history is something I have often felt does not exist on my mother's side. Bits and pieces, yes, but the majority of my knowledge stops with my grandmother. I've mentioned this previously. What is the life of the child of immigrants tethered to? I care about placelessness, the search for some eternal hold but the knowledge of past (attempted) permanence's problematicism. Wills and wishes to move. Who am I not to create my own history of a family? The creation myth of my last name, with what parts of truth are known. Speak further with Oma.

Jon Verney's Angel

47" x 47”. Archival pigment print, 2018



jul(13/14).2022 | aachen, de

Rocks are tumbled to give them a lacquer with which they always look wet. It is common knowledge that a wet rock picked up on the beach does not look as good when brought back home and seen dry. Smooth, shiny rocks are preferred over coarse, dull ones. This is something I have never fully understood. I have always preferred things not to be shiny. | Cars are not treated like rocks, quite the opposite. While still preferentially shiny, a car's glaze is given by way of airbrushing and buffing, an individualized care that only renders one car at a time a desirable object, unlike rocks in a tumbler. Factory work has made it so that many cars can quickly be brought to this state of desirability, though still in succession after one another rather than simultaneously. I am of the opinion that it would do the world well to tumble cars before bringing them to market, and that their extra ensuing shine by way of leaking oils and greases would greatly increase the value of the cars on the open air market. It would be toxic to sell them indoors to the pyromaniacs, unless the building itself is being tumbled too.

All this to say, thoughts work like rocks and unlike cars. When thrown at each other enough, they might amount to something. Sand grains are still coarse until enough collisions render them round. Thoughts can, however, like cars, go places. I knew someone whose writing and mind were like that of a combustion engine: flaming, roaring, furious, but contained into a vehicle with which he preferred to speed past any critic other than himself rather than burn them.

"The goal, then, is to convince the world I know something."

"Surely it won't need to be a convincing act. There is always something that someone knows."

"Well of course there are things I know, but once a finger is put on it, the oils from its ridges smudge the knowledge and it becomes altogether clear once again that there is little or nothing that I do know. Else, that knowledge would have stayed fixed. I have never spent enough time with anything for it to set beyond reasonable fear that my mere touch will push it into disarray and longing for more on its subject, or a push to something altogether new to be disappointed by a new smear rather than the same one repeated."

Neugier, die

Curiosity. Literally translates to "new greed."

I am sitting between packaged Printen and posters that were to be flown home today, instead forced to wait another thirteen days before the rebooked flight due to world-renowned illness. Thirteen is an auspicious number. My little brother, who has faced a fate similar to my own, was born on the thirteenth of the fifth month. Thirteen instructors acted as facilitators and mentors rather than top-down teachers to an enclave of forty-three (once one more) that found a temporary home in a place none of them had previously belonged to.

Zuhause, das

Home. zu Hause sein is to be at home.

Home. A funny thing, an endless question. I would rather have no attachment to the town I was raised in. I, all my life, favored one half of my citizenship over the other. I, upon hearing of my parents' possible uprooting/removal from America upon the overturn of Roe v. Wade, felt strongly suddenly that I had to stay in America in order to make a place I regrettably had to call my own a place that would also be habitable to and accepting of those I love. What makes a home? Is it, like freedom, defined in its antithesis to something else? Is it place (physical monument, building, structure) or space (activated by people, movement, interaction)?

I am quick to call somewhere home when referring to a place to head back towards. A tent on the slopes of the mountain whose morning fog had dissipated. A Detroit home whose garden edges I cleared of yellowdock. The house of two friends gracious enough to let me sleep on their floor and couch upon return from New England before I had to return to my parent's house. My grandma's apartment, where I now will have cumulatively spent at most three months of my life, if that. The pull toward 1973.

Bits and pieces of places, comforts or some other feeling of security. Home could simply be complacency. Home is where the heart is, where passion lies, where bodies lie (sleep or pleasure), where guards lie ideally because an intrusion on a home is not only an incursion unto a place but unto a state of mind, irrevocably erecting at once walls and turrets, high-power light beams and open eyes buzzed wide on caffeine or its cousin: fear-adrenaline. There are headspaces that are home, and unless anxiety is accepted as a friend in its everyday presence, fear is not one of them. I would have argued for sleep being a home-space, but nightmares can render that space intruded and its ever-changing collection of memorabilia in the form of dreams make it more of a museum of never-day life than a home. Is there home in the unknown? Do regular skydivers find a sense of home in freefall? Do hikers of the Appalachian Trail call the whole trail home or the tent on their backs, or a combination of both? Is home where you have slept or shit or eaten or wept or laughed or forgotten your own name and the position of your hands as you fell into slumber? Did Janine Antoni call the gallery home as she wove her dreams into a blanket? Did Marina Abramowitcz call the gallery home where she made intimate eye contact with every single person to sit in the seat opposite her? Does a home presuppose a future, does it imply the promise of possibility? Can we call the world home if we would not bring children into it? Can we call a grave a home? An urn? Home for the dead? I have heard hospitals only referred to as homes ironically, and yet it is within those too-clean buildings that many of us will pass away, especially while the American healthcare system tries to keep our blood pumping longer by way of tubes and drips while our lifeforce has been sapped away for longer now than it ever should have been without taking us the whole six feet. Zwei Meter.

Übersetzung, die

Translation. Literally translates to "over-putting" or "over-setting."

Was ist überhaupt eine Übersetzung?

My grandmother is turning eighty two on the first of the ninth month, twenty days before I follow her, sixty years behind. Sie spricht kein Englisch. When we last said goodbye seven years ago, it was clear that a strong thread left out the closed rightside door of the van I sat in and the open waving palm of her hand as she stood waving on the sidewalk. Liebeskummer : Lovesickness. Kummer can also be translated to grief. This is an idea that does not translate well to people unrelated, due to the closed notions of what love can be. Lovegrief would be closer. And still this is not quite correct. Language has that limitation when trying to describe a feeling relegated to the interior of the body/mind Third. What all is lost, gained, or changed in translation? Ekphrastic poetry seeks to work from an image, turning what eyes see into words.

I brought with me to Germany a voice recorder lent from a professor with the purpose of recording my grandma's voice as she told me her life story. I have not unpacked it. I have not even asked her if she would be okay with my recording her. There is something about the ephemerality of conversation that I cannot shake, though I have a feeling I will be kicking myself in the future. Then comes the question of translating it all into English, for clarity to a world audience. Most Germans, save for my grandma, speak English almost as well as they do German. The inverse can not be said for Americans. Certain flavor words can never properly be communicated to an English speaking audience. Then again, the comfort in language-subversability that I feel in English is unmatchable by my occasionally stumbling German. The blessing of accusative's absence.

I hold within me accidental holdovers from sub-consciously translated feeling. German nouns hold gender, and as such I see the moon as masculine and the sun as feminine rather than vice versa. This is not a newly discovered or novel phenomenon by any means. Many before me have spoken on this exact theme. What I am interested in is the way that non-language can also be translated. How language in one language can be translated into its own language. Language languaging language, I want nonsense making sense. This is method, ain't it. This is midnight-minutes past midnight type typing, asking a sick-ridden stem of a brain leaned pillow-tilt on a dresser to roll up all the lovely thoughts and stuff em close like kids did to themselves with blankets and how those same kids now grown do the same again especially to sweat out sickness oh yes I'm here.