Log: Publication

Traditionally, web applications have stored user data on their own servers, and thus, the server owners bears full responsibility for and ownership of that data. They can analyze it, sell it and manipulate it how they wish (which includes destroying it). Now, what if we flipped the script, and instead of web applications storing user data on their servers, they needed user permission to read data users own? The user would then have full ownership of that data, and could inspect, remove, change ownership and access as they wish. Applications would also store the data on the users server instead of their own.

This idea behind the SOLID project, in which users would own what they call data pods. In other words, users would store semantic data in a pod and grant applications access to read from that pod. That way we can move away from companies like Meta storing and keeping so much information about us. SOLID is not the only company exploring this concept. AT Protocol, developed by Bluesky, does something very similar. Users can store their tweets on Bluesky's server, or host their own PDS, or personal data server, retaining ownership of their data on the pod.

ICloud arguably can also function as a data pod. It enables apps to store data directly to the user account instead of a server, enabling the seamless synchronization that comes with having data stored on a server.

Lately, I have also explored Caldav servers, which share characteristics of a datapod. What I like about it though is that everyone is already signed up to some sort of email provider, and with that they most likely also have a calendar, which typically uses caldav as the backend. Caldav uses the iCalendar media-type, and it is surprisingly flexible; it supports events, todos and even journals. There are therefore a lot of potential for interoperable social productivity tools and note-writing tools that haven't really been explored.

- Marc

From within one of Bath's most charming bookshops, I write the second half of my reflection on books read during the first half of 2025, perched on a wooden balcony laden with shelves, tables, books—overlooking even more books, as a well as smatterings of people chatting and enjoying each other's company. A reminder of what the world can be, at its best, even in the moments that feel heavy under the long shadow of violence. I conclude my overview in the company of books currently being read, wanting to be read, and those that inevitably I will never get the chance to read.

Some Surprises

One of the habits I have picked up on my travels is that of allowing chance and generosity to direct my reading list. I have come to learn that, in most places, readers have a tendency to set up little trading nooks of books. From the kaz à livres encountered while hitchhiking along one those steep winding Guadeloupean roads to the small stack of books sitting in the lobby of L'Alliance Française in Ipanema—new books often find me when I least expect it. Books that perhaps I imagined reading someday, others that I might have otherwise never made my way to.

One of this year's most interesting surprises came from the Joigny food market. Tucked into the side of one of the entrances, I noticed a bookshelf, improbable in a visual field peopled with the weekend's fresh produce and other agricultural products: leafy greens, cheeses, winter fruit, fish, honey, saucissons. The bookshelf was nonetheless a popular spot for the townspeople, many of whom paused there on their way in and out with their Saturday shopping. Intrigued, I leafed through all sorts of books, from cookbooks to thrillers, until something caught my eye: an early 20th century edition of Jean de La Fontaine's fables.

I was familiar with La Fontaine; his most well-known takes on classic fables, such as "The Hare and The Tortoise", are staples of French language classes. Which is to say, La Fontaine inhabited a corner of my brain associated clichés and easy moralism. Even so, the beauty of the little old book won over my prejudices, and I am glad it did.

Far from being the morality tales that I imagined them to me, La Fontaine's 17th century retelling of classic fables is riddled with contradiction, humor, rebellion, and more than a touch of existential angst. At times, the "protagonists" of the fable-poems can appear to embody straightforward moral principles, like the "hard-working" ant of the famous "The Grasshopper and The Ant". However, I found the ant to be portrayed as judgemental and almost cruel in its treatment of the grasshopper; an attitude that was explicitly condemned in some of the other fable-poems in the collection. I was left feeling unsure of La Fontaine's stances throughout. In one fable, craftiness is celebrated, in the next it is condemned as dishonest. I like to think that, perhaps, as La Fontaine re-read and re-imaged these classic fables, he was also intrigued by the contradictions that came to light. Perhaps, rather than handing out morals, his work actually highlights the fact that trying to extract straightforward lessons from life is impossible.

The biographical information provided in the book lets me entertain that hypothesis. La Fontaine lived during the reign of Louis XIV, the powerful Sun King, but led a life that feels uncannily modern. Exiled for going against the grain and having what was judged by the monarch to be a "dubious" morality, La Fontaine nonetheless succeeded as a poet and garnered enough support to live from his art. Almost atheistic before his time, but suddenly pious when faced with death, La Fontaine was self-disparaging, funny, lucid, and self-delusional in ways that feel very human. Rather than going around moralizing, I find that La Fontaine crafted beautiful poetry through which he reflected on what it means to live a good life. He also contributed to important discussions about power, art, governance, and education, but I'll stop myself here.

Thus far, there have been two more surprising reads this year. One also came from the Joigny market bookshelf, the play Athalie by Jean Racine. When I picked it up, my only expectation was to read a work by a "classic" French author that I had not read yet. I ended up enjoying a great play that posed some very pertinent questions about power, violence, and freedom (it was "softly" censored during Racine's lifetime, posthumously considered to be one of his greatest works). The second surprise thought-provoking book was a gift of sorts from a good friend, who suggested I read Don't Sleep, There Are Snakes: Life and Language in the Amazonian Jungle by the missionary-turned-linguist Daniel L. Everett.

Our Times

As it might be apparent from the last section, I cannot help but associate what I read with the challenges we face today—even if it's a poetry book about talking frogs and dogs from the 1700s. It is one of many reasons that I am particularly unreceptive to the assertions that studying literature is "useless".

As a result, I could have honestly featured many of the other books that I have read this year in this section: from Umberto Eco's depiction of socioeconomic inequality in The Name of the Rose to the questions raised by Tanizaki Jun'ichiro with In Praise of Shadows that foreshadow current debates on globalization and representation.

I chose to feature two works here that for different reasons touch on topics that are near and dear, Ce que c'est que l'exil by Victor Hugo and 10.000 horas en La Silla Vacía: Periodismo y poder en un nuevo mundo by Juanita León.

After reading Les Misérables during university, I developed a soft spot for Victor Hugo and his sense for over-blown grandiosity and drama. Hugo's style feels acutely that of another era, but many of his biggest concerns are timeless. The basic premise of Les Misérables, that of the injustice of condemning a man to forced labor for the hunger and misery he was born into, continues to resonate in global demands for greater equity and justice.

With Ce que c'est que l'exil, which roughly translates to The nature of exile, Hugo reveals the price that he had to pay for his activism as well as his opposition to the reign of Napoleon III. While I had been vaguely aware that Hugo had been, at some point, exiled to the islands in the English Channel, I initially processed this fact as historical trivia, without much thought. However, through this book, Hugo acutely transmits what it is like to be condemned to exile, persecution, spying, and harassment for 20 years. Beyond appreciating Hugo the literary legend, I felt that I approached Victor the man.

At the same time that I recognized and lamented the struggles Hugo described, reading Ce que c'est que l'exil ultimately gave me hope that the ideals for justice and peace that can feel hopelessly out of reach today could one day materialize. Among the "radical" ideas that Hugo was persecuted for in his time: his support for universal suffrage and public access to education, his opposition to slavery, domestic abuse, and tyranny. More than describing his own suffering, Hugo highlighted the importance of persistence in the fight for greater justice, and the key role of solidarity, even in moments that can feel so isolating.

There is a lot of talk of our contemporary collective disenchantment, of a vacuum left in the wake postmodernism that needs to be filled. It is a discussion that awakens all my skepticism, as it often leads to claims that as humans we essentially "need" religion. I won't go down this rabbit hole now, but I will recognize the need for a coming together that is constructive and empathetic. In my eyes, Hugo's romanesque writing (even with its flaws) shows a way. I was sad to find that there was no English translation for this text which, like with Carranza's poetry, made me once again entertain ideas of translation and dissemination.

Similarly, my other pick for this section is not available in English, as far as I know. 10.000 horas en La Silla Vacía: Periodismo y poder en un nuevo mundo is a reflection on contemporary journalism in Colombia written by Juanita León, the founder of one of the leading independent news outlets in the country, La Silla Vacía. In her book, León looks back on how it all started and how, despite all the challenges, La Silla has persisted as an independent outlet. This necessarily involves an overview of Colombia's recent economic and political history. Not only did I fill in some gaps in the understanding of our recent history, but León focuses a lot on identifying and describing the mechanics of power. Colombian society is incredibly conservative and hierarchical; Colombians have some of the worst prospects for social mobility in the Americas. From the outside, we all vaguely perceive the structures that keep power in place and concentrate it, but León allows the reader to peer within these machinations.

At the same time, León candidly reveals that to keep La Silla Vacía afloat she has to make use of all those social markers and contacts that are the key to getting anything done in Colombia. León must operate within the very system her outlet critiques, which generates tensions and difficult ethical dilemmas. I find her transparency around the logistic issues of keeping a media outlet running so important when thinking about how to create alternatives, as she did when she decided to launch an alternative to the big legacy media.

At a moment that violence is rising again in Colombia, in which it feels like the country is stuck in a hamster wheel of death, León's book provides precious understanding. This light that journalism, testimony, and research, all offer is vital to warding off the informational darkness that violence requires to thrive. One of the Colombian journalists that I admire the most, Javier Darío Restrepo, spoke widely about this during his lifetime. I reflected a bit on his writing last year while in Cyprus.

Other Interesting 2025 Reads

To conclude, some final books that prompted me to reflect on literary form and genre. From Sontag's essay in the form of a list to Shambroom's ekphrastic history-essay, these works serve as a reminder to imagine more.

• Duchamp's Last Day by Donald Shambroom
• L'exil et le royaume by Albert Camus
• L'homme qui plantait des arbres by Jean Giono
• Notes on 'Camp' by Susan Sontag

- Andrea

This is a celebratory log, despite the titular allusion to the Greek underworld. It has finally happened, I've officially been published.

Today, the second issue of The Madrid Review was released, which marks my poetry debut (in Spanish). Three little pages, three little poems. That's all it is, but it's a fulfillment of bookish childhood dreams. Books and printed media have always seemed like such authoritative items, and it did not seem possible that the words I wrote could actually be printed inside "official" books. All the while, I was constantly creating magazines and books from colored construction paper, notebook pages, Word Documents, and anything else I could get ahold of.

What makes October 2024 doubly special is that it was also my short fiction debut in English with The Good Life Review.

These milestones have been made possible by two teams of editors who recently started their own literary magazines (The Madrid Review was founded just a few months ago), who don't make a profit, and volunteer their time to foster the arts. It's inspiring to see them do this work, and it makes me think that one day I would like to do this too. For now, I will continue to write and do my best to support independent presses and magazines.

I've fulfilled a dream, and yet, I've really struggled to celebrate.

Just at the moment I thought I had settled into Cyprus, life hit me like a ton of bricks. I spent almost half of October with a nasty cold that left me feeling very behind. I became so focused on all the things I failed to do that little room was left for recognition of what I had worked so hard to accomplish. Two weeks of illness was followed by two weeks of mounting stress.

I don't want writing, creating, learning, reading, to just be a constant race, always reaching for something that I imagine to be better. I want to be anchored in the present and live where I am, rather than always focusing on that "next" destination. It's a privilege to be able to do so and ultimately, one day, there won't be a next destination.

Until then,

« Il faut imaginer Sisyphe heureux ».

- Andrea

As of today, I have publications forthcoming in Hypertext Review, The Good Life Review and The Madrid Review. In the past two years, I have published at Americas Quarterly, Periódico de Libros, Pie de Página, and for Artists at Risk Connection.

It was difficult for me to write that paragraph. It is even more difficult still to post it and keep it on this website. The feeling that I am bragging really gets under my skin, which is why I tend to struggle with self-recognition. But, my aversion to listing "accomplishments" is not even fully based on humility, it is also a bit of cowardice. It takes courage to stand publicly behind a piece of writing (especially some pieces of writing that I now find could be so much better, if only I could pick them apart and put them back together), it is safer to sink into anonymity.

However, if I were to retreat, I would be incapable of truly understanding where I am at as a writer. And, despite of everything, I also marvel at it all still, that the texts that I spent hours drafting and tweaking and dialoguing with others about are out there, whatever that means. In a sense, I still don't really truly believe it.

From childhood, language and writing have always been a safe haven. I gravitated towards storytelling in the moments of most uncertainty. It was fun. Libraries were there no matter how many times we had to pack up and move. I always knew I wanted to write, to be able to share images, thoughts, impressions, and feelings with others.

However, a writing career never seemed like an option. Of course, a career involving writing, yes. But it was out of the question that I would just write. That wasn’t a real career, and most importantly, it was unsustainable for someone like me. Even when I majored in languages, literature, and the humanities—I imagined I needed to enter academia or do something else. And I did, I did do something else, and I found many additional passions in the social sciences, in anthropology, in film, and in science.

I continued to write, but for myself. Other responsibilities quickly took up my time, responsibilities that I genuinely enjoyed tackling and that were within the fixed path laid out by my studies (which involved academic writing). But when the studies ended, or paused (who knows), and I had to think closely about what I really wanted to do, the urge to write, creatively, made itself known. But about what? And who would read it?

It turns out that I had published before, as a student. But I never took those achievements seriously. I downplayed the writing itself, for some reason, “it didn’t count”. In some sense, I feel that still, like the publications I have listed at the top of this entry "don't count", incomprehensively.

The first creative text that I published appeared a decade ago in the quarterly magazine, Just Poetry!!! This poem, “Fruit Salad is Heterogenous”, was just a faint memory in the back of my mind until I rediscovered the printed issue earlier this year. I didn’t even remember it had been printed. I certainly didn’t remember it had been one of the nominees for best of issue. And when I re-read it, I realized it was not half-bad for a high school student publishing and writing poetry for the first time. I surprised myself with those words, and they evoked feelings and memories latent with meaning.

Exactly ten years later, my first creative English narrative pieces and Spanish-language poetry pieces are forthcoming.

I am well aware of all the ethical issues with the publishing industry, as with any industry, especially as journalism and print struggle financially. There are very good reasons the reject the notion of traditional publishing all together. And yet, the efforts of small presses that I see here in Bogotá and online internationally are exciting (Hypertext and The Good Life, are non-for-profits; The Madrid Review is a volunteer effort). And even in more traditional media, there are people passionate about storytelling. I can discern (or a better word, vislumbrar) a way of breaking through and sharing stories and histories with a variety of people. That prospect excites me.

Not to say I haven’t been discouraged by rejection (part and parcel of the process) or by a perceived shortage of time or disappointment in myself (self-doubt, or perfectionism). It has felt impossible at times. That feeling of failing to communicate something important, essential or the essential nature of that which I am trying to communicate. The hegemony of English also makes publishing in Spanish challenging—and I don’t want to feel pressured to write in English because of it. I want to write in English because I feel like it. And I want to be able to write in Spanish (or any other language) when I feel like it too.

In those times of self-doubt, my friends and family have been essential, as well as the kind words of the readers who have found something worthwhile in my writing. But also, diving into the written works of others has been so important. Those books, poems, and articles that speak to me motivate me and give me courage.

- Andrea