It was a cold summer, even for Berlin. That evening a close friend Hanna Fuhrmann and I walked to a small bar that marks most corners of the city. One of those places where there is more paint removed from the walls than added and you can see its history by tracing the ragged edges of falling wallpaper. Each couch looked as though it had weathered a few winters out doors. She was about to leave Berlin to move across the ocean. "Nathan, we should do a project together, it has been a while". My mind is a constant wander and when asked to place a pin on its map I never know where it could stand. I responded: "A book publisher recently asked me if I would write a book about hardware hacking". And so it was. The exhibition of the book took place in november two thousand and eleven and the leporello print of the book will be out sometime in early two thousand and thirteen.

In the year of two thousand and eleven I was wondering Berlin as poet would the desert. With my brill dry from the heat of activity that the city offered I had traded pages for recording memories for the adventure of exploring a new life. I was leaving this beautiful city behind to focus on design. As I was sweeping my possessions into boxes and placing a few treasures into a caravan a good friend and compatriot Ronnie Shendar contacted me with an idea. She had been building visual installations for the live shows of Gold Panda, a producer from the Island of New England. She wanted to know if I could build a series of lights that she could control in order to compliment her palette, his music and the stage. Not knowing where i would live, and how this new adventure into the wilderness would turn out i said yes and worked on this project with her instead. Somehow, it worked. They toured the US with this system. The design included individually addressable lights connected to an Arduino. These could be controlled via Processing or OSC (via such visualization software as VDMX).

My mind was tattered and torn from the passing of the 2nd intifada. The polarization that results from living in Jerusalem was still unbeknownst to me. I wondered between the extremes of humanity trying to both find my identity and the threads that represented any remembrance of beauty. How could I continue the routine 9 to 5 existence. One evening at Cafe Uganda, my only solace, Benjamin Weber and I met. He asked if I could help fix his router and before I left it was clear we both held Typography as some unexplainable religion. That evening we agreed to work together to build an exhibition of typography and calligraphy that took place in Tel Aviv and Ljubljana in the year two thousand and six.



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Words. I did not know how to deal with the polarization of the social situation in Israel. In place of practical progression I felt left only with tacit emotion. Emotion that the limitation of language kept at arms length no matter how close one tried to pull it. Despite the warm climate the tattered ancient stones that line the streets and walls of Jerusalem made the podium seem cold. The podium was a cellar in the center of the city that poets would meet in and the result was a hand sewn publication of poets and the production of their thoughts.