BLOOD

A colorful illustration of a bug-like troll figure, with cars and bugs and a cityscape in the background. The city is black, and the sky is turquoise, with a large green vine and pastel-colored bugs.

The Troll: Between the Mythological and the Digital

Not so long ago I met a troll for the first time. Or I think I did. I’ve probably met others, but since they usually work in the shadows, their identity is anonymous. Trolls never show they are trolls. But this time we were living together.

A person in silhouette, bathed in orange light. The image is quite dark, and the person is holding a guitar and gold bead shoulder pads catch the light as they turn toward the camera.

Suddenly You’re Pointing Everywhere and Everywhere Points Right Back

DOOM leaves space for not just the work, but also specifically the footwork of mourning to pop up, which at times might look like a teetering dance and heavy breath from under a lace mask.

An image of a water bottle with a pink label and cap, resting on medium sized river rocks. The label text has been swirled in an obviously edited fashion.

Aqualiteracies: Understanding (and Sensing) Water as a Hybrid Data Carrier

Coming from Bogotá, a previous swamp which was dried out in colonial times, I didn’t grow up with a body of water close to me. The Pacific and Atlantic Oceans were around 10 and 13 hours away from where I lived.

Turf House Erotica: Soft Darkness and Radiating Body Heat (Honoring Our Icelandic Ancestors)

I am a farmer. An Icelandic male farmer. (It is sometime in the Olden Times.) I live in a traditional Icelandic turf house.

A drawing of a boot, a series of mechanical objects, and scratchy lines. The edges of the paper are visible.

The future toddlers of my friends clamber over me and affectionately sprinkle grass onto my shoulders

I sit here- writing this while the sound checks for a festival in Victoria Park sound out. It is like 1, 2, 3- 3 ch’ ch’. I sit here writing this while my childhood best friend is preparing to play at this festival- I will be able to hear him from my window.

A soft, blurry, circular, geometric pattern of blue and white

Initiation.

This is the story of my arrival to Berlin.

1. The setting. (Separation) t is spring 2019, and I have just moved to Berlin. I am filled with excitement and curiosity to rediscover the city I was born in, but that I haven’t lived in since I was a toddler. I am still able to romanticise the U-bahn and the fact that I sleep in a bare room on a shitty mattress. It suits the coming of age narrative I created in my head. The 30 days I spent here so far have been full of encounters and activities, as if I made it my goal to explore each facet of the city as fast as possible.

A bird's eye view of where the river Tietê, São Paulo used to be, and is now is dried and filled with cars, appearing to have been abandoned in the middle of a traffic jam. Green trees and bushes grow above many car tops, between concrete walls.

I try to remember and all I can taste is earth.

I am writing this days after the Ahr river flooded in the west of Germany, killing 184 people.* The pictures, a friend says, look photoshopped, as they show me how to move the cursor from right to left, displaying the before and after scenes. All I can think is ‘less green.’ The same friend tells me of the flooding of the Elbe river that happened in 2002, and that it was Eurocentrically named “the flood of the century” (Jahrhundert Flut). After all, most floods of this century have not covered European soil. The broken banks are presented as a governmental failure to predict, re-inforce, and secure. Control measures failed and Germany’s immunity to climate disaster has been torn a little, despite the appearance of success. The holy see it as a message from God, the capitalists call it a time for harder intervention and more capable management, and time travellers say, as with every so-called year, this is the year of the bog.