If I were to state swiftly what was on my mind: Angelo Harmsworth… ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

But other than that my dreams and perceptions, my career and who I am.

Things that are here, things that are not. Systems, accents, cultural conditioning as individuality.

Individuals with whom I would be delighted to make out.

A party I would like to go to in Spain.

How to display the perceptual, the phenomenological… or not. How to question myself elegantly and with new software.

This building is so beautiful. I am so happy to be here.

I am so happy to have time to think.

There are kittens under the bush by the guards.

I see when people walk across the arched glass hallway and think about visual symbolism and characters and how every view is framed.

I think about the excellent inter-departmental make out points within the building and want to share them with whoever or whatever.

Maybe I could even sell this idea to another person who likes making out and architecture enough to try it.


I was playing fetch with a giant brown bear at a party. It was in the type of place one would encounter as a house sitter for the elite. I threw a little fluffy ball high in the air and the bear jumped above my head, elated.

“Wow, bears can really jump!” I found a basket of toys in a living room area and was looking for something bigger to play fetch with, I decided on a yellow rhino with pink spots and then my alarm filtered in and woke me up.


Have you ever had 109 pimples and no place to put them?

Were you ever asked on the street, “sei un pittore?” Endlessly and responded: “si! Chiaramente!” Each time?

(Balancing a beer on the bucket tied to the bike and singing Taylor Swift, laughing that you are the type of person who gets Taylor Swift stuck in their head and then sings it while toting paint and locking themselves out of their apartment).

I am clearly a painter, 12 L of white strapped to the lil bicci on a Tuesday night.

Mosquito bites on the bottom of my feet and maybe these itchy forehead pimples also come from a bug, or several.

Trend alert: bug bites on knuckles.

I wake up to scratch my feet and face and blow my nose and think I have a cold – actually I’m just cold… but the bugs aren’t. They rely on me for their life blood and I rely on the money my friends and family gave me to buy more paint.

Wildest dreams oh-oh-oh!


I saw one of the cutest people in the world waiting for the bus and thought: “I hope that is the new interaction designer from Sweden.” It was. We talked about interaction design and where we’re from as we stood on a swerving bus.  



The recycling truck lifts the bins with a series of beeps, and dumps them into resounding clatter – without worrying that the neighbours will complain.

I stand on the balcony, admiring the lack of tentativeness. I want to shout “ciao! grazie!” At the orange- clad man operating the sonic pollution, But also don’t want to wake the neighbours.

There is a big tree which the building was maybe built around, it’s the only significant plant-life I can see beyond basil in windowsills.

Everything is design, our entire built environment – the infrastructure in which we live. I think about Kristen being a city planner, and what trees she may have to avoid or plant for our environments. I think about how I am loved unconditionally, and how happy I am to exist.


My computer (and now I) arrange the dates in this way: day/month/year. New world.

Yesterday I walked from Fabrica and had a long conversation (in sign language and stilted Italian) with a woman who had been yelling at high school students on the bus that morning.

When we got to the piazza the bus was leaving and she yelled at the bus driver until he stopped, then he yelled at her as she got on the bus. I kept walking and  picked up some glass Tupperware and wooden coat hangers at a “hyper market.”

Today I went to the immigration center on got an Italian identification number, then biked to Fabrica on the too-small bike that Jenny is loaning me. I worked until 9 today, thinking about my own projects, then biked home with Alexis. Now I’m making spaghetti.


Living Room, Treviso

It’s hard to speak in sentences when you’re 20-hours-travel-tired, but the taxi driver and I did sing along to Madonna together, as he swerved on the highway from Venice to Treviso, not using turn signals. He offered to take me for an espresso or a pizza after fetching my new apartment keys from the Portineria. 

The 30 pounds of black canvas backpack, and combined 70 pounds of grey plastic and  sleek aluminum suitcases that had been my faithful companions relaxed on the floor. I removed the silly bunny-themed shelf, globe, decorative egg, and crystals that were in my new room for some reason (fertility symbols?) and put them in a pile on the ironing board in the living room. I started a load of laundry, found a ladder and dusted the armoire and light fixture in my new room.

It was good to arrive at a space containing elements of personal psychological hell because it forced me not to take a nap and thus ruin my chances at getting over jet lag.

My struggle against napping continued. I walked to Bottegon (the nearby bar) to see if anyone I recognized might be there. Then I walked back. I was taking down a dusty and sunburnt curtain when I heard the door open. I jumped off the ladder, and kissed my new flatmate on the cheek. “The neighbors are gonna love me.”

My new roommates are Nicolas and Alexis,  a curator from Greece and  a graphic designer from New York, but we went to a party where everyone was dressed as one another – an ideal introduction for someone who has not slept. “I am Shek, from Hong Kong” said Deniel, from Mexico. I talked about starting a noise band with him and Aihnoa from Basque (Antti from Finland). I walked home around 1am with my roommate Drew, a photographer from Missouri ;)

One of the first things I said to my flatmates was “do you like the mural?” (Everyone has always hated the mural.)

Our apartment has an open concept kitchen/living room – its bones are nice. The gas stove is stainless steel and has 5 burners. The fridge is red to match the white and red tile… and an accent wall (which is the wrong shade). The accent wall has someone’s trite and poorly-executed artistic inspiration it… or had. In my first days, with the Alexis’ help, I worked tirelessly to break as many rules as possible. Now I can’t see an administrator without a joke about how “handy” I am. (And they did not even see the pictures of me, toting 12 liners of white paint on the back of a borrowed bike, a houseplant in the basket).


Nicolas was excited to come home to a white loft and immediately began planning an exhibit. We went out for a Spritz and thought about names for our new space (Nicolas liked: Living Room, Treviso) then we had a gelato (there are several vegan gelato options at the place about a block from the apartment). Good world!