20 hours of travel/work straight. Glamorous. Angelo and I talking in the smoking lounge of the airport about how an unclear future is part of Fabrica’s structure, about how when I first discovered Fabrica I thought I would join the “being and dying” department, and about this being the anniversary of the day I found out my first love had died.

Angelo had been up till 3. I had been up till 1, drinking and chatting with Kristen (while wiring the new fans). I had a plane-beer while Angelo had a nap.

There was a public transit strike in Athens and a “creative technologist” as Angelo called her, drove our taxi, operating two phones and a tablet with her long nails. We sat with the Polish artist who we would make friends with and eat breakfast with and party with, but first we had to install my piece, which we did until after midnight.


To continue to theme: I had a really good day today.

I was just looking for installation references that use water, saw some images of The Floating Piers, and had the sudden simultaneous reactions that I usually have to that piece along the lines of: “cool!” “great!” “how tragic his wife died before its realization,” then “but how beautiful” and “I regret not being in Italy to see it.” 

I thought/felt: “things are more often tragic than not and that is okay.”

Something about processing tragedy (and having some practice with this because tragedies keep happening) is making me less attached. The negative space of our dead loved ones is a transparent layer over everything.


I just realized that I’ve internalized the 24 hour clock. Before it was hard to think of 17 as 5 because 17 is black-purple and 5 is blue. But now 17H is a gradient from blue to purple-black along the z axis (which represents time). So I’ve combined the two time systems (or layered them, and turned the opacity down) and wasn’t conscious of it until now, tired, waiting for the work day to be over. Excited about buying tofu and beer! Double reflecting mirror and a track for Angelo.

Kristen wrote a beautiful message to the new group chat of me and Alex and Jessie. Her writing was so honest and I think this missing Hoku feeling cracked through her in a similar way to how it did with me recently. 

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.


There was a basement in Cash’s apartment/Ghost Ship that no one knew about. I went into it and scooped up 40 or so sleeping bats in my arms. I dropped one as I tried to bring them upstairs and I think it hit its head and died, but I had to keep going to try to save the others.

The bats started to wake up and fly around. A girl with short black hair, who lived in the apartment, was freaked out. I was focused on containing the bats in one room, on keeping them safe. Those that had emerged from slumber turned into black kittens (except one that was orange). They were stumbling around… just opening their eyes.

Before transforming one of the bats telepathically told me that the group needed to go through the passageway underwater, that they couldn’t exist in this world for long.

So I went with the group underwater, into a dark river of a different dimension. All the spirits had turned into glowing fish, then… streams of light.

Writing about the dream makes cry. (In a little Bar by Fabrica, on my way home).


I found out Cash was missing before the fire was extinguished and spent the weekend anxiously anticipating the worst – which is what happened (as evidenced by my last posts).
Cash’s parents wrote a touching/heartbreaking memorial in Rolling Stone and Kennedy released the last song they were able to record together.
I like the song so much. One specific layer of pain is that I can’t continue to look forward to hearing new releases, or to scheme about collaborating or touring together.
When I met Cash and Kennedy one of my first thoughts was “I can’t wait to be friends forever.”

There was this euphoric dance moment to the live version of “Bird” by The Knife and we were all so IN IT.  I was honored to facilitate that after party. I was honored to play my first show, opening for Them Are Us Too.I am happy that the specifics of favorites, aesthetics, references, politics and selves which make up our precious cultures have intertwined to the point where I got to briefly know the radiant and deeply intelligent Cash.

There is a lot of political/systems thinking that hinges on the fire and how it affects our cultures and futures, which I find myself thinking about a lot. But none of this approaches the intense grief surrounding the lives that were lost. I wasn’t friends with any of the 36 victims except Cash, and my base reaction is that there could be no greater tragedy because she was sublime and critical and going somewhere, and the world will never be as important or as beautiful without her.

I miss a future where we get to experience Cash’s new art. I miss a future where we get to be friends forever.


Finding the “@” symbol on the Italian keyboard became a sad action.

When you forget for a second and your body reminds you to be sad again.

Grief is my gut’s incessant proposal that the world and all its components are tragic.

It feels odd to sit in the same studio and walk through the same hallways as those around when I am so deeply in a different space.

I went outside with Quentin this morning and he gave me the best hug. So much compassion, it was like being embraced by a saint. He gave me one of his “real cigarettes.” we were talking about the fire and Monica Faggin called out the window:

“Is it sunny out there? Why are you wearing sunglasses?”
“I’m crying, my friend died.”
“But it doesn’t look sunny to me,  why are you wearing them?”
“Because my eyes are sensitive, because I’ve been crying, because my friend died in a fire.”
She said “Oh” and closed the window.

Quentin asked if I wanted another hug.

Ghost Ship

The worst feeling holds itself inside of me

But I can’t access it fully

Implying anything was ever real

Lurching nothing

Hurling it into the void

Greif as an object

Negative space of friends

Anything anyone has ever done has been wrong, because in the end bad cancelled out good.

What was it like to burn to death? Does one pass out before the pain is too intense? Did our friends realize they were going to die?

Dark heavy grief mass, horror, tragedy, meaninglessness. I’m sorry.


I was disappointed to find that all the relics from my childhood, which I had thoughtfully sorted and let go of ages ago, had reappeared. It was a heavy feeling, modulated only by the bittersweet memories attached to a collection of gelato spoons amassed over a summer with my (now dead) first love.

A music book stood out in the pile of discarded and homeless items. An illustration of a pig accompanied a wild post-bop jazz piece. I mentioned to my dad that it was a wonderful song and he said he couldn’t read music.

Mykki Blanco was sitting in our living room after a show and before a party, talking about feeding apples to pigs in Germany for a music video. I jumped up and said “Oh! Pigs love apples!” I know this because in the mess of old stuff a piglet appeared, eating what looked like a very juicy apple. It shook its head around playfully, looking me in the eye.

Beyond the pile of things was the shore of some spirit realm where we would have a family dinner with our deceased loved ones. Pork was on the menu and I wondered if it would be served with an apple in its mouth.