sep02.2022 | rackham

Subtopic ideation:

family history || immigrant children/separation || poetry || therapy/resistance || generational trauma || memory/dreams || esp/sixth senses || mourning/grieving/death || community || bookbinding || illustration || family art history || imagined histories || censorship || performance of past || atheism w religious roots/ || personal memory || TRANSLATION: losing/gaining meaning. audience? || transgenerational homes vs nuclear family || sense of place/purpose || forms of love/care || evolution of capturing memory/oma's path westwards

Focus on: Don Mee Choi by searching "Don Mee Choi interview"

Thoughts from this interview with The Pool:

  • How can subtitles/captions be used as poetry? How can "supporting text" stand on its own?

  • "I realized that the sound of the ocean was coming from the freeway" : finding other false associations. Translation of sound to artificial source.

  • Language as expelled tongue, Kim Hyesoon* saying "that she had no mother tongue because the language she is expected to write in is regulated and prescribed by men." Challenging conventions of language as challenging conventions of structure (political/national/social). Find further examples/possibilities

  • "Structural inequities...propel and nurture the idea of a 'genius'." How have attitudes on strength/intelligence/resilience specifically in my family been changed/viewed/lofted/hidden across different levels of privilege over time/generations?

Thoughts from this interview (Links to an external site.) with Paul Cunningham

  • Idea of "replanting" lines/ideas to see what grows and dies. Find other artists who come back to previous work, find failures.

  • Contemporary history: when is start/end, where are the boundaries of time and place, investigate overlaps across distance/time/generations

  • Kim Hyesoon's "obsession is expressed or woven very tightly, often entangled with her body, her existence." as a poet!! Find more examples of bodily/existential expression through non-performance/portrait means

  • Investigate invisibility of translator (across contexts). Go back to mediation by programs/materials/machines. Collaboration with tools rather than control over. Change in collaborative balance over time (slide projector vs. overhead projector vs. digital projector and encompassing programs). UNSEEN LABOR across stages (MoMA anatomy of ai, etc)

  • [As a translator] "I’m that tongue that has licked and groomed every word and punctuation. So whether you see me or not is not my problem. The real problem is the slimy saliva my tongue has left behind which you will be or are already in contact with." Investigate different translations of source text that I can also understand (German/English), return to NELP idea of [verb]ing an existing text. same passage/spoken recording translated as [decayed] or [calcified] or [sprinting] or [crying]

*Kim Hyesoon is a Korean feminist poet whose work has been translated by Don Mee Choi.

to read: Maria Kreuzer; Hans Mühlbacher; Sylvia von Wallpach: Home in the re-making: Immigrants' transcultural experiencing of home

aug28.2022 | ann arbor, mi

we are nearing. sentences and sketches to be made. piano comes up through the air outside the window, where the screen does not close and bugs occasionally stick their (lack of) noses in to say hello.


personal speech as (un)intentional occlusion to others' involvement. impersonal taken personally, is a focused absence of a figure not a statement on the figure itself? have we not been told that silence, too, is a political statement? it is a conscious choice of Sarah Orne Jewett's to omit the narrator as much as possible from The Country of the Pointed Firs. it is a (sub)conscious choice to write a journal entry in second person so as to shy off the active tense of your (see your) self from the reader's mental focus. Upon realization, however, such an attempt at evasion becomes a bright burning lighthouse beam at the moment the gears line up to shine thousands of fires' worth of heat's twin directly into your two eyes—one if you close the right and squint the left as you might when the fresh roads not yet darkened by tires shines as a thin cloud veil does. the loudest sight makes eyes do unconsciously what earplugs and pointer fingers or pressed palms do with thought. you have noticed the tangent. distraction from the actual product of the poster.


Adam Harvey's CV Dazzle, 2010

hair, makeup, algorithmic learning


Dries Depoorter's Jaywalking, 2016

live surveillance footage, code, button, email


American Artist's A Refusal, 2015-2016

social media (performance)


Team 3 (Fee Christoph, Matthew Shannon, Cayetano Wagner, Hao Wang)'s Stop Watching Us, 2021

webcameras, robotic arm, code


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



Ondi Timoner's We Live In Public, 2009

film [trailer]


Trevor Paglen & Kate Crawford's ImageNet Roulette, 2019



Micah Weber's No stories can be told - all the deals have already been made., 2015


Okwui Okpokwasili's MoMA Artist in Residence, 2022


Do Ho Suh's Home Within Home Within Home Within Home Within Home, 2013


Joana Hadjithomas and Khalil Joreige's Lasting Images, 2003


Don Mee Choi's DMZ Colony, 2020


Jon Verney's Angel, 2018

archival pigment print, 47" x 47"


Laurie Anderson's O Superman, 1982



Camille Casemier's Work Has Made It, 2019


Nora Turato's pool 5, 2022


Bread and Puppet Theater


Rirkrit Tiravanija's Untitled (Free/Still), 1992/1995/2007/2011-

Refrigerator, table, chairs, wood, drywall, food and other materials. dimensions variable


Jill Magid's Tender, 2020


Linda Montero & Tehching Hsieh's Art/Life One Year Performance, 1983-1984


So many of these precedents fall into categories for multiple ideas/projects. Everything is a mass. Who am I to hack my brain into thirds or quadrants or sections at all?

aug27.2022 | ann arbor, mi

Why is it that now seems to be a time of death? I had thought September held that title, but August is opening before business hours and closing shops statewide, mine was not the first to go nor does it seem it will be the last. We are sending back and forth things we hear and learn and think about because the questions arising are not as individual as we imagine and are often the nth iterations of wondering that ancestors before us have also grappled with. Is it a grappling? To grapple implies high stakes and immediatism (not necessarily in the form of immediatism, i.e. holding events in present moments in which the performers and audience are blended and presence becomes the focus) with the possibility of injury or death: whether by falling or being bludgeoned, climbing or wrestling. It is, at least in the case of myself and my friends, only the few that personally face the tunnel. Farmor did, though. Holding on for five days, refusing or unable to pass that final threshold and give up control. Doctors say that, when the food stops going in, some folks may take two weeks to die. Others two hours. You cannot know. Oma would wait until the room was empty and then let go, always hiding the most pain and not wanting to burden anybody with her own ailments. Farmor needed a hand held, a comfort. Just sitting and waiting. What more can one do?

I like that: to sit with others. I often find I am little to no good with words, but to sit is simple enough. Finding a common purpose or goal. Poetry parties. Let us look at the same images and tell one another what comes to mind. The back and forth is implied. It is not, nor has ever been, my idea. I simply stole it from Camille Casemier, after I had been invited to a poetry party of hers my freshman year. Work Has Made It. Responses she had on separate occasions made their way into Daryl, her digital book I can now no longer access since her website went down. That is the kind of communal experience I crave. Rallying around the random, familiarizing ourselves with strangers' photos. Building a new form of history/community/relation to art-making. Along with the ego, I'd like to kill the idea that the artist is a solo enterprise.

My friend sent me Micah Weber's thesis/dissertation, among other things a recalling of death and attitude towards, laced thoroughly with other thoughts adjacently related.

Everything becomes performance, doesn't it? Everything connects as the sprouts take hold of one another and graft into one, vines wrapped around themselves so tightly they give a stronger illusion of a trunk than the sapling they used as their first hold. Farmor will be buried under a tree, one planted and grown in Germany but known to native Norwegians who may have never left their land, ashes in a compostable urn under a ribbon of yellow or blue. In what, two weeks? The same amount of time I was in Germany for longer than expected, and even with the window enlarged I never made it to her. O infectious disease, even with you finally gone five or six weeks later you are ruled the cause.

I do not know enough to make an ode. I was not close enough to hold her hand, I could not say I remembered the time seven years ago. Her daughter-in-law claims she asked a single question about theater.

Much of what I make ends up centering on death.

Is there a difference between thinking about the death of ancestors and thinking about ancestral history? Does it lie in the abstract vs. the concrete? To ruminate on death is most likely to center myself in that thinking, contemplating my own mortality by way of others'. Their solidification of an abstract thought. My father could tell, apparently, the moment his mother died, because it became clear from one moment to the next that she was a husk. The soul is a real thing. Even as it forgets names and faces, even as it comes out on the other end of five weeks with nothing in neuron's conversations pertaining to what might have happened, like the blackout of total anesthetics such that sleep itself seems a long road, it engages in some form separate and yet connected to what meat it drives. How stupid this sounds.

I did not check to see if the quarters and dimes I have picked up since then have had their heads skywards or if they were staring into concrete like brick-headed ostriches. Perhaps only pennies matter when it comes to luck. I have not encountered further candles. The closest was a joint passed past me as fast as possible so that it could attempt to make the rounds twice through. What is it to be lapped? I lollygag when I go for walks. Reckless danger, slick-tire night rides, are reserved for false processing; still a release of sorts, still healing, but in a way totally contrary to the three,two,one mile per hour pace of rubber soles. My tires clocked thirty today, meandered to a garage sale where nobody was home. The picture dad sent of her jewelry still sits amidst blue and grey bubbles without a response.

How does one deal with grief of a person they should have been closer to?


^The three ideas. The second is the strongest, though all of them hold bits and pieces of each other within themselves.

aug26'5.2022 | ann arbor, mi

When a pillar of familial knowledge/experience crumbles (by which I do mean a slow, noticeable decline into rubble), how does the son of a son try to bear that loss? He who has been detached for a lifetime, who grew in a pot far away from the garden from whence his seed had been plucked and planted. He who knew near nothing about Norwegian woods and flowers, trolls more story than reality, though their shadows of their shadows stood proud in his quarter not occupied by the smaller, more potent German rhubarb. The family split in two and on its one side split again and again, lumberjacks of dissonance slamming the dulling blades lengthwise with the grain so that the roots themselves split like hair let grown too long and then snipped off by careless or precise scissors depending upon whose council you've called. Branches cannot look through the soil to see their roots, or these branches cared not to look at the sprawling web, so often photographed and held in the form of pages by others, laid bare above the knotty crabgrass of a riverbank. These branches saw instead the gnarled singular knot on the opposite side, further from the fjord edge, and spoke with it and it almost alone. These branches brought their wrists down to hover just low enough to embrace the knot without crushing it, even and especially as it tied itself further like an unknowing sailor mooring a paddleboat for all eternity. All the while neglecting the web, even though it was all there, even though these branches come just the same from those exposed roots as they do from the knot, but these branches have been trained by shade not necessarily to pull away from the bank but at the very least have been led towards the solitary knot, a family of individualists raised by an estranged sister of sisters who would ask for little more than trust but cannot trust trust enough to find herself comfortable without clutter or control.

Part of the web has broken off, battered into thin leather forgetting faces and greeting the kind holders of brewed beans without recognizing their relation to her, that they are made of the same wood as her though their bark has not yet folded in on itself to the extent that hers had, creasing and gathering in layers to cover her eyes so she may need not to feel sunshine's burning, so she may be cared for in a facsimile of what is to come, or maybe its opposite. The light at the end of the tunnel inverts itself upon release, light is dark and dark is light, matter becomes energy and loses the noun form of itself in full absolution into the verbiage that had shared space with physicality of soul up until this point. It is the lost that hold the space between marked positions.

The night before, a man on a bike asked us, as we sat surrounding a backgammon table in Redhook, whether we used candles, to which none of us replied in the affirmative. If the man wanted money, he could have some, but we had no use for candles. We do not own high end restaurants. We are not expecting power outages. Three out of five are on the road, traveling in cars that burn gas. We do not burn candles.

I should now be burning a candle, just as the nursing home and my mother started to do the day after the man asked. I should have bought a candle. Had I known that the twenty first was to be the fourth or fifth day she could not and did not eat or drink, I might have changed my answer to the biking man. I might have recognized the string between him and her. The sixth sense that my other grandma has was not passed on to me, or if so, it did not help me. I am blind to the dark matter. I only wish I could see what is (not) there.

I had traveled to Germany anticipating bringing back as much of my maternal grandmother's artwork as could fit in a suitcase, prepared to record conversations to uncover some aspects of family history on my mother's side that I had not known before. Trying to build up as grand or thorough a web as possible, since the Norwegian side of the family—my father's—was documented to the point where I felt I had close to no interest in it growing up. Even now, I make clear that my dad's mom died. I could not say much of where she came from or what she did. Hospital work, a microscope gifted to my sibling, late stories of fostering dogs, questions of continued theater. She and her husband could celebrate his birthday together for the first time in nineteen years the day after she finally made it. Such a strange phrasing.

"hat es endlich geschafft"

Es fuehlt sich falsch, mehr Woerter als die vier nochmal zu tippen oder runterzukopieren. Alles weitere ist zu persoenlich, ausserhalb meines Reviers und deshalb lieber ungefasst, lass mich fassungslos, fass bloss nichts an, selbst in den Bildern mit Optionen, jetzt Schmuck und Besteck, wo ich und die drei Anderen alle Bescheid geben sollten, was sie gerne haben moechten und ich bei den ersten vier Bildern, Schulter and Schulter mit Mama die Schulter and Schulter mit Coby sass und auf Teile zeigte, waehrend ein Gefuehl von Gier und Scham in mich kroch. Wer bin ich nach etwas zu verlangen, nachdem ich jahrelang keinen oder wenig Kontakt mit ihr hatte? Wer bin ich, jetzt nach sieben Jahre vor Gesicht, zu weinen? Wer bin ich? Ihr Enkel im Namen des Gesetzes schon, im Spur Blutes auch, und doch davon getrennt. Zwei Seiten im Vergleich. Nimm es bitte nicht persoenlich, Sie haben mir und meinen Geschwistern oft die Entscheidung getroffen. Ich kann es Ihnen nicht sagen, wie anders es gewesen waere, waeren Sie nie umgezogen. Ich kenn nur das, was ich vor den Augen und in den Armen genommen habe. Mein Bruder braucht Liebe gezeigt, indem man ihn in Arm nimmt. Die Arme klemmen. In Momenten des grossen Gefuehles kribbeln meine Handgelenke als wuerden sie abgewuergt werden. Taubheit schleicht sich in meine Palmen und mein Gesicht. Dies ist nichts fuer die Welt zu sehen. Ich will es raushaben. Ich will es aufgeschrieben haben. Aber nicht in einer Form, die gelesen werden kann. Eine Art Geschichte und Verdauen, ohne Zuschauer. Ohne Publikum. Jetzt ohne Farmor.

"So maybe I’m trying to create a tradition that I’m supposed to have been a part of, but never was." - Okwui Okpokwasili


I will make a story, in a form unfollowable by any but myself and even then not fully. I want to investigate my families’ past. I do not want to bare that to the world.

Nora Turato's pool 5


"she gathers pools of text from disparate sources and with no order or logic, accompanied by spoken-word performances based on the books"

"I’m sifting through the culture and performance is the fine dust left at the end, stuff that stuck"

jul19.2022 | aachen, de

Ich suche etwas, was ich ganz leicht in Unterhaltungen finden koennte. Probiere aber stattdessen, alles selber zu machen. Typisch. Oma hat Geschichten zu erzählen, ich habe Geräte zum Aufnehmen. Doch halte ich mich davon zurück. Fragen kann ja nicht wehtun. Gerade ist sie auch krank, dann lieber weniger sprechen. Beide Omas mit Corona. Beide Omas. Die Eine werde ich weiter nicht gesehen haben, sieben Jahre plus wer weiß nicht, wie viele mehr. Die Andere werde ich am 26. zum letzten Mal für eine Weile sehen. Es kommen mehrere Geschichten mir in den Kopf. Vor allem von ihren Eltern.

Ihr Vater hat im Krieg gekämpft. Im Osten, an der Fronte gegen Russland. Das Einzige, was er jemals erzählt hatte, vom Krieg, war, dass die Russen in Linien standen. Die ersten Soldaten traten vor und schossen, bis sie geschossen worden sind, wonach die nächste Reihe die Waffen der gefallenen Ersten aufhoben und es nochmals so weiterging. Eine Reihe nach der nächsten. Er erzählte sonst nichts. Man kann sich ja nicht vorstellen, was alles er sonst gesehen hat.

jul18.2022 | aachen, de

I wanna be selfish. I am not the only one detached from my family tree. Broader context right there, baybee.

privacy! i can't trace it all back without my data going everywhere. 23&everybodyelse

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.