future pollinators .

 I've been sick and bedridden, but the first thing I wanted to do when I felt better was visit the garden. Just when I think it’s reached its peak beauty, it surprises me with the dance of flowers going to seed and new species emerging from the ground.

This year, we decided to transform an unused plot of land behind our shared home in Berlin. We let it grow wild, except for patches where we planted vegetables and selected flowers like nasturtium. The most important thing we did is simply enriched and loosened the soil, that was all the work necessary. Konstantin is studying Horticulture, and I am blessed to be learning so much from him. Now, countless plants have self-seeded, from the tiny scarlet pimpernel to the towering king’s candles—taller than Konstantin, and he’s tall in my scale...I’ve tried to identify them all, but sometimes I feel like I can't catch up, or get overwhelmed.

The only thing that makes this sweet experience bitter is the amount of butterflies and other insects that we’ve encountered this summer. It is so little in comparison to the amount of flora taking over the patch of land, the poor bees cant keep up with work (but they are there, all buzzing, always busy). 

I had been thinking a lot about flies in the past, preparing my graduation project at the master studies in Iceland, where I tried to befriend a fly inhabiting my home. It makes my mind wonder: what if flies become primary pollinators, following the flowers evolving to attract them with scents of compost or decay? Flies thrive on the waste we leave behind (as humans we tend to leave so much of it), becoming our constant, often unwelcome companions, no matter where we live.

At home, we have two notably pungent plants: the Gynura purple, with flowers that smell like old gym socks forgotten in the locker for summer holiday, and Stapelia variegata, whose fishy scent captivated us so much we took a cutting of the plant from the botanical garden. 

I am still recovering from the sickness so this is enough of brain work for today, but I will come back to it; if any of you reading have some recommendations on future pollinators, possible, plausible, probable, or completely fictitious, please reach out to me!

x ma

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all gas .

Under the influence of a sweet, home-made chocolate bites, with a mind-bending filling, also distilled from a home-grown plant under a mysterious sub-name of All Gas OG, I have had a subtle yet powerful realisation. We have just finished watching one of the episodes from the new season of The Bear, a show about transformation under distress, that of a regular sandwich shop, to the aspiring fine dining restaurant and their chefs, changing in a trajectory similar to their kitchen. In the episode I have just gobbled up, the main character was struggling with the inner perfectionist, pushing himself and everybody around him to their limits, through which he had expected to expand them bit by bit by bit. In the world where the smallest of actions matters, and every second counts, no grain of rice gets left behind on a bottom of a pot, a side of a spoon, or running down the sink trapped in soap bubbles, everything is made with a focus of a freshly sharped knife, and extreme dedication, devotion of all energy and other resources, including blood, sweat and tears. I got to cooking right after watching the episode and in the midst of the all gas mingling with my blood stream, I decided to enter that kind of a mindset while preparing the meal for myself and Argi, who got struck with covid and lied lifelessly in between pillows on the red couch. 

The joy of making a dish out of recently made, irregular and chaotic yet beautiful sheets of pasta, with a sauce mixed out of a bomb of flavours; that of carrots roasted with olive oil, salt and rosemary, blended with more olive oil, tahini, miso, lemon with the zest, yeast flakes, spicy, smoked paprika and freshly roasted sunflower seeds, topped with the fresh olive herb from our garden. When I served the dish, the pumpkin seeds on top were still scorching, popping and farting gingerly, like a ceramic piece weeks after being fired in the oven. 

It struck me there, in this simple and delicate moment, that I am searching for the one, specific thing to pour myself into and for it to define me, not only on the job market but in the eyes of people in general. But, in the middle of all the identity crisis thing going on, I forgot; what if I was to pour myself with such dedication (maybe not too extreme, I am eternally fond of balance in all I do) to every or any action taken, remembering to approach life itself with the sharp focus, curiosity of a child and letting myself be mesmerised in situations less trivial than a walk in the woods, or an evening in the garden. What if I looked at the place I'm in, the things I do already and the people I connect to, and found myself anew with what there is already, but on a much deeper, sharper level? 

I really want to try and turn that switch ON more often, not only under the influence of external substances. Some of the other thoughts I want to dwell on deeper include: the comeback of my fascination on how can a human see beyond the human format, with the use of the most powerful of tools, fiction. Working with human perception of their environment and advocating for shifting to non-human perspectives. Curating gardens and creating ecosystems that evolve over time, in a dance of death and rebirth. Gardens with plants, animals, and other organisms coexisting in a fixed setting, blurring the lines between art and ecology.

x ma

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