To the workshop I am bound to go, to that quaint cramped Mitte garage standing as a last bastion against the developers. When we first arrived, my colleague and I, a few were standing outside talking in the sunshine. It was hot and they laughed at suited men and women in black Mercedes cars arriving to look at the recently flattened buildings opposite. Now there is just rubble, another wasteland, one towering wall, pinning an entire block into its sector. What a sight, rows of executive developers, hands on the grim wire fence looking out at glee over the expanse of shattered brick and foundation. These are the places.
Talk turned to antennas, locative media and faded fictions as food was passed around, sausage from the Swiss mountains smuggled across the ranges in a backpack. Inside, we gathered around the square table covered in dismembered electronics. Maps were pinned to the wall alongside great sheets of grey paper upon which the locations of the next few days were sketched out. Then splits into production, movements toward content, knowledge sharing and cross pollination. Quiet debates had about networks - using the sea as a social network, secretive GSM co-ordinated smugglers, open twitter disinformation, micro FM bulletins - while outside, more rain threatened.
Then I moved to the preoccupation that would swallow future time, learning how to program using Pure Data. Could it be that this language bridges the gap between novel writing and music composition. Not that either of these needs excluding nor converging, but rather that it appears that these middle grounds, these no-mans-lands, these wavelengths between two transmissions are where most voices occur. This is where messages are sent and messages can be received, where breakthrough can occur.