In Berlin you can eat garden-weed-spread on toast and drink steamed white wine with a teabag in it.
You can go to the sweatiest basement, from the pointiest wind, and back.
In Berlin you can come home to Kamille making 150 vegan perogies.
Falafel is €1. You can buy a warm beer and walk outside with it until it is cold.
Aside from that, they do a great job game-ifying their recycling.


I had been walking to my jitter/Javascript workshop, but took Ubhan today so I could sleep until 9.

Lunch at a German organization with an Italian instructor is a compromise between the two cultures – it was long but we were expected to be back on the minute. I got the “spicy chili” burger at the veggie burger place, and an espresso. I saw the sun for the first time in Berlin as I walked by the river.

Kamille came to join me for lunch break, AKA a 10m kissing break. Federico (the workshop instructor) gave me a knowing smile when I came back inside. 

It’s an ambient-pleasant sleep-dep. Kamille told me she has learned a lot of new words from me. “Like what?” I asked, “sleep deprivation.” she replied.

Sweatiest Basement, Pointiest Wind

Like myself, I wasn’t worried when we were running late for the bus, or when the Tabacci wouldn’t sell us bus tickets, or when the bus didn’t show up, or when the next bus was 18 minutes late.  Kamille was not amused.

I stood calmly in the non-EU line, told Kamille to go ahead, if I missed this flight I’d see her tomorrow. The visa check woman told me to rush, which made me uncomfortable, Kamille helped me take cuts in line, which made me uncomfortable. We ran to the gate, only to wait in another line for half an hour.

Always trust your gut, I guess, and mine says: “don’t feel rushed or be rude under any circumstances.”

“I am the idiot of this plane!” I announced, having sat in the wrong seat, then heaved my 20kg bag through the air like “check out my new dance move.” “You are not an idiot” said the person beside me. “I know” I said  “I’m actually the genius of this plane, did you see my new dance move?”

I had developed a cough over several days of disturbed REM cycles and coat-lack. I got some cough syrup right outside the stop for our next transfer and a beer at the späti next door. Kamille said “grazie” as the door swung behind us, then laughed.

Lying on Kamille’s bed, snuggling and naps intercepted with thoughts of the night’s plans, she offered me a piece of chocolate. I don’t know German ingredient words, but wondered if there were traces of animal products. “Oh well, you can’t assume all freegan chocolate will lack milk derivatives.” I thought. Oh, also, the chocolate was packed with psilocybin.

As we set out, I felt this clear transparent field over everything. I was a new lucid-me, peeking my head out over the atmosphere: “New drug, new feeling” I said, or something along those lines. And it was true.

The patterns of infrastructure, specifically within the framework of U-Bhan, were a reminder of how the built environment is our collective mind, all of us existing as one within it, and as it.

I sat in the crosshatch of yellow and blue, within clunky, serpentine train-movement, cracking open from some point in my sternum, becoming so spacious that there was no me to be anyway.

Hoku always said I should take mushrooms and I always said “no.” I wanted to write him a letter – let him know I had casually joined into a part of him that could never be accessed fully.

“The only part of Hoku that exists is me remembering him.
So I am Hoku right now.

Thanks Hoku.
I love you.”

Tears were streaming down my face. 

“We are just water with feelings” said Kamille. My trips in Berlin have been defined by the deconstruction of daily reality, and emotional transformations – particularly surrounding the death of loved ones. It was all matter of fact. I was my normal open self, but more so.

“It feels good to be here, inside the cold
It is a fun and “cool” experience…”

I laughed at my own joke, in the maze of construction, in the un-built cold, a cold that had nothing to do with our intentions, but which existed as something more real than our ideals.

From the pointiest wind to the sweatiest basement. Laughing in the line for the bathroom while not being in the line for the bathroom, talking with the fashion boys in the line for the bathroom: “Is that Prada, or Nada, and which one is more authentic?” 

Fonzi was with his two hot friends, in a literal underground. One of them like: “Berlin is sexy… but cool.” I gathered his tobacco, rolling it into three instances of forgotten cigarettes and a kiss on both cheeks. We separated out the sounds with our musculature, describing with our bodies some ways that its sculpture could work.

“Opposite rain room.”
“Undoing time in a scroll.”
“Reverse waterfall.”

(Fonzi and I talked about time and digital media).


In the morning Kamille and I stayed naked under diffused orange light. When we got up we went to a street market, walked through mud, muddled through mulled wine, ate falafel.

A man on the street asked to take our picture. For his fashion blog? JK, if this dude had a fashion blog I would be 2 very’s worth of surprised. Who knows why he wanted our images – to show to strangers on the metro? To curse us? That seems more likely.

We didn’t take a small shelf from the street. We went out for pho at the vegan Vietnamese place, with Fonzi. Walking back in the cold wind I sold the idea of continuing to do so, rather than wait for the metro.


Kamille blasted Polish rap from her tiny bluetooth speaker as our group walked to Akanksha’s birthday party.

When the cops were called the two of us (Kamille and I) hid under the kitchen table and kissed.

Mattia talked to them (the cops). The music was turned down. Akanksha didn’t know this cop-calling neighbor.

Tina, photographer on trial, talked with a group of us in the kitchen. Jenny covered everyone who entered with glitter. It’s a miracle I got away. Jonas’ hair was sparkly in the weeks that followed.

The second time the cops came I was gone but Akanksha’s newfound evil neighbor called Fabrica and threatened to sue, landing her in a meeting with Monica Faggin for more than just a slap on the wrist (threatening to kick her out, talking on the phone saying “what do you expect, she’s Indian.”) Youch.

I heard all this on a late rainy bus ride with Akanksha. Thank dog these will become our fond remembrances and not our unraveling. Party girls and troublemakers are the secret backbone of Fabrica.


Woke up before it was not-dark and snuggled with Kamille. Nothing like someone else’s soft skin and warm body. The comfortable way limbs intertwine when you’re not quite awake yet.

She followed me around the apartment as I got ready, wearing the purple United Colors of Benneton blanket.


“You look like an empress”

She looked out the window.

“I am enjoying my new empire.”

“Of trash?”

(our balcony is still covered in holiday cheer)


I’m so tired everything feels see through…

Eating unreal pasta at mensa…

Interesting, I am on the other side of this pasta, and this pasta does not exist.


Submitted to 3 open calls – Ireland, Netherlands, and Greece. My budget for the second round of prototyping was approved. I spent an enjoyable afternoon listening to Song for Masahiro and watching fan review videos. “You know I love braided cabling, so that’s a big plus for me.”
Kamille wrote and said she had a fun day smoking with Jacopo, eating panini, having a drink, exploring the city center, buying warm tights. Made me feel relaxed.


The feeling of waking up in a new city with a blank itinerary, and a beautiful date brings you perfect coffee in bed.

I learned the word Blümchensex after having had it.

Deep, sweet, dreamy intimacy.

Dear blog, remember when I was saying that all I wanted to do was to fall casually-deeply-in-love? I fell deeply, repeatedly, into serotonin-laden eye-contact – on U-Bhan, in a dark bar with reclaimed furniture, at a vegan “raw meat” Syrian restaurant…

Within an hour of arriving in Berlin, I found myself on a date with Kamille. We shared a big meal at an Indian restaurant, later reflecting that this was a good way to start our marathon-date, because we both ended up with new-love-appetite-lack in the days following. The word for it in German is more elegant, but I have forgotten what it was.

It’s inevitable to share words about words when you’re dating a trilingual-trans-Polish-girl.

11 Kamille

Continuing to fill the archetype of “cool friend who lives in a cool city” Alfonso now lives in Berlin. We met up at at a smoky hole-in-the-wall bar with good, loud jazz – talked about the line between as the thing; ephemeralism and minimalism as privileged life-choices; post-WWII-hoarding, the next wave of re-settled refugees as hoarders; firework-wars between neighborhood-kids on New Years and the days preceding, and how to get from party to party without ending up in the cross-fire. 

In our conversation about social class/the ability to consume ethically, we realized we both had scars from the crystals kept in pockets of our second-hand denim. Fonzi was about to explain. I laughed and said, “oh no, of course I know why… we’re both from Santa Fe.” And speaking of where we’re from, we discussed the Great American Road Trip, but in Europe.

My process of living in/moving from cities involves the collection and dispersion of houseplants. “No” said Alfonso, “rent a car and take your plants with you.” He has been doing road trip photo series anyway – we’d make it an art project. 

Tucked between bio food groceries, luxury cosmetics, and a designer rug store in Mitte is a dark graffiti-covered alley, leading to controlled-rent housing-projects. You wouldn’t know they were there if you were passing by. I found myself in the Leftist/Female/Lesbian/Trans/Refugee project in on New Year’s eve (unsurprising). 

One of the refugees who lives there made a giant vegan feast. Everyone danced together to a mix of traditional Cameroonian music and international pop hits. The whole city was full of fireworks, neurochemical and otherwise. Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

Moments after walking through parks and streets of magnificent multi-directional noise-music (midnight fireworks, in close proximity to bodies) I learned that the community I was with had thrown a solidarity party for the Oakland fire victims. Around this time Alfonso messaged me and told me he loved me. I started weeping and it was the highlight of my trip.

Last New Year’s I spent the morning studying for the GRE. Sarah and I joined Crocket and Sandra in LA on a whim. In the afternoon I ran into the ocean in a black turtleneck and skinny jeans, then walked around wet for a few hours. I wondered where I would be in a year.

The answer is Berlin, in exactly the same outfit, but wet in a different way.


It was super quiet for 7pm at Fabrica, then I discovered that everyone was in a room laughing, eating cheese and christmas breads and drinking. No one I asked knew why.

Angelo told me how to ask if I could get a Prosecco for my friend in Italian, and I brought a glass to the Social campaigns department.

Shek and Jonas were also biking home, I proposed to them that we stop at the little place by Luciano Benetton’s house.

The tiny restaurant was full of Italian men with thick white moustaches. We sat in plastic chairs outside drinking Prosecco as the owner smoked. A person zoomed by on their bike and I commented that they were going fast for not having headphones on. Jonas played a Scooter song from my phone and said you could bike to Fabrica in ten minutes if you were listening to that.

It was misty outside and we saw Akanksha jogging. Then I saw Quenton and someone having an intent conversation at Bottegon but they didn’t see me. The person with whom Quenton was drinking was a dreamy French architect.


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.

2 of 3

Pet Spider’s perfect profile: 

My self-summary

apples, almonds, meat, sweetener tabs, coffee, club soda, pineapple juice, wine, lemons, green leaves, body lotion, soap,

with banana slices,

& throw your cigarette into the street, & walk away.

What I’m doing with my life

going badly, in a dry climate, with a sweet intention.

I’m really good at


The six things I could never do without

moody, dark, handsome, tormented, infatuated, idealistic.

I spend a lot of time thinking about

23, 33, 2009, beach, bleachers, branches, cleaning my room, dreams, driving, drowning, eating a light snack, five hundred miles a week, hanging blue lights, infectious, in her sleep, love object, wearing an avocado necklace.

On a typical Friday night I am

with a wilted bouquet of Eucalyptus leaves, with Diana Ross, with an empty water bottle, with a tire iron, with a paper grocery bag, with a crumpled receipt.

You should message me if

you’re a grubby Venus de Milo.

Pet Spider messaged me on Tinder with the same timestamp that I messaged her on OKC. I said “Poem” she said “Number” we met at the big metal industrial sculpture and drank Prosecco under a rainbow, in a storm, at sunset, under her umbrella.