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ScrollDiving —Release II


Scrolldiving is an ongoing collection of texts on intersections between digital formats, human experience and geographical spaces. We are tracking texts written by humans interested in such tropes by focusing on authors mainly based in the Americas.

Some of our current editorial interests include accumulative experience with devices, plein-air digital culture, and infrastructure-oriented aesthetics.

Selected authors will be commissioned for maintaining a writing process that occurs online. The text's development and editing will be accessible, allowing the readers to include annotations within the text. This process collates content through expressions of the edition, both visualizing and pluralizing the access through versioning and deviation. Design is embedded in the process, therefore any output is inherently a by-product, not an end.

Scrolldiving runs its headquarters in the U.S. and Mexico as part of
TLTRPreß publishing house (Berlin-Germany,) and its board of editors is composed by Javier Fresneda and Seth Ferris.



manuel arturo

What is the texture of the archive's violence?

A major problem of our time is the conflation of attention and care. Citation stands in limbo between the two, putatively neutral but fraught by its coloniality. Do the formal features of citation present an opportunity to create a context where paying attention is authentically a form of care?

Conducted by manuel arturo abreu, Windows is a collaborative writing project that explores the relationship between this conflation of attention and care by building a cluster of ad hoc multimedia citations and juxtapositions in relation to a video work by Jacksonville-based artist Redeem Pettaway, Windows (2016).

By drawing correlations between the printmaking process and textual intimacy, Windows lays the ground for a network of care in which communion and consumption inexorably exist in tandem. Featuring sound, poetry, critical text, and more, citations from abreu, Winslow Laroche, and sidony o'neal will unfold from 20th March to 17th April 2017 to explore the potential of the casual archive as an agonistic presence against the transformation of care into a facet of the market.


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sleep / skull

Redeem Pettaway's Windows (2016) is: that one word on the tip of your tongue is the one that stops the moon from falling. The one your grandfather sent you in between blinks, in that early morning hypnagog, wipe that crust out your eye. Sleep is the cousin of death, time's the father. Stay woke was always already a slogan, so who was even asking. I'm sleep tho. I'm amalgam, balm, alarm of body data in storm and thrum. Weak plunk, podunk, hot filigree.

The skull is the European symbol of determination: not of death, but of the domination of life, of projecting white suicidality onto time itself. We gon work on the other side of time now that it has officially ended. The skull is also the relationship to canon and its shadow: the artist appears with their hands behind their back, making marks with brush in mouth as though words could be writing. As though when one speaks one is spoken through. No map without tongue. No field of stark posies. What's revealed: a black avant-garde is really a form of conservatism, a protection of tradition, a defense of the dead. We are the true angels of history.

The fact is white people love a good memento mori. For them death is a reminder to stay productive, to protect and enjoy the fruits of conquest while they still have them. For us death is the headache of drawing another breath. The exhausting certainty of waking up every day to another loss. Imagine yourself asleep for so long, only to wake up in an alien place where no one claims you. Who does that describe? The fact is nobody sleeps better than white people. So ‘stay woke’ isn't really a choice, just a hollow imperative. Like ‘at the end of the day’ or ‘the fact is’ or ‘take care.’ Take it from whom? Stay woke went from conspiracist sign-off to Snow tha Product merch slogan to white political horizon, even spawning “alt-woke” radicalism. Eventually mayo will make all the words so corny they're unsayable. Can't get no damn sleep at all, even dreams and the unreal have been colonized. The torpor that seeps in is both refusal and exhaustion.

the slowness

Dr. Kemi Adiyemi speaks of black queer slowness in resistance to the tyranny of speed and productivity. This is not the mourning of the grave or the bored hyper-attentiveness of the studio. Neither is it lateness or the sense of time out of joint. Rather, the slowness is all this and the drawl, the lean, the syncopation. Chopped and screwed, slow jams parties, the black ambient. That little moment before the word comes, or the improvisation begins. The long glance at yesterday and tomorrow. Not affect but its shadow. This is the slowness of Windows, of Jacksonville-based artist Redeem Pettaway's recent output, which explores the ontology of black death in its lived texture, and the impossible glory of black life and ancestry in the longue durée of slavery.

Pettaway comes from a long tradition of Gee's Bend quilt makers, but their practice takes a different direction. They work in performance and video, engaging issues of digitality, black spirituality, and gender. They have inherited the same brilliant eye for texture. What I know from conversation is that Redeem cleans slowly, lingering over every object. Each seems to contain an unfelt gesture, an ungestured feeling. Why do objects seem like they lead secret lives? How do we take our time when living off borrowed time the clock ticks faster? When you're stolen you're stolen. Affect is all carceral.

Pettaway's earlier work is both about and not about the slowness. Under the moniker Safety Corporation, Pettaway adopted a high-fashion, obscure digital persona, posting stylized content on Instagram and tumblr that seemed to celebrate “the motionless, manufactured, and retouched.” The work drew attention to the connections between the clinical aesthetics of digital subcultures like health goth and the antiblack history of medical science, offering a trenchant critique of the violence of fashion and fad cycles. The project was also a performance of labor, with the artist answering questions and offering advice via tumblr until it became emotionally unsustainable. The persona became a kind of oracle, and their responses mimicked AI speech, perhaps exploring the idea of how white supremacy made black people the first robots, something Redeem and I have spoken about.

Pettaway adopting the flat affect of AI in response to an anonymous tumblr question.

They moved on from the Safety Corporation project to produce performances and videos exploring black spirituality and the ritual aspects of aesthetics, with remaining shades of oracular monotony and stillness. In these works Pettaway recalibrates pentecostal possession, locating it not in manic submission but in quiet meditation —the daemons are in the details. In their video narration Pettaway speaks slow and lets the silence take space where it will, to sprout. Words wilt. Visions of greater purpose. Language never claimed to be enough so we can't blame it. As the work draws us back into the inexorably theological character of secular aesthetics and art, it generates a post-body slowness to lay the grounds for immaterial data, for spirit data. The laggy old machine, the floppy drive. An airless bubble of honey. The raw god molecule of melanin.

And yet this new meditative position is never the taciturn pietism of Protestant ethics and their continuation in capitalism. The conceit of Safety Corporation's critique of emotional labor tacitly relied on the failed premise that one can critique something by embodying it. In Pettaway's recent output, this conceit disappears, with ‘work’ returning to its theological roots and appearing more as a horizon along the trajectory of understanding, and eventually preserving, what they call spirit data: that immaterial connection across the slow expanse of history's violence, the originary cybernetic quality of African mainland and diaspora. In this way they point to the endeavor of repairing linear time itself, which has been so brutalized by the white heroics of projecting suicidality, the onward march of skulls which disturbs and destroys so much global cultural continuity, renders so many ontological positions impossible.

The slowness is the antidote to the insurmountability of the work of repairing this situation. It speaks to how we must do what needs to be done in meatspace, but also be still in spirit and wait for visions to come calling in networked blink and recog twitch. Visions of what will arrive, visions of a greater purpose, visions of the unheard. A connective tissue between two negative spaces teaching us to know that we are condemned to meaning, yet that we must celebrate its inevitable outside. Taking the position of a kind of guide, Pettaway adopts a variety of personas in their videos. Ranging from angel to jester to studious boy, they never fail to treat bodily experience as a portal across temporalities and somatic dimensions, achieved by careful attention to haptic detail and textural juxtaposition.

Pettaway's output evidences this attention in a variety of dimensions, such as in the fetishistic latex explorations of Safety Corp or the poetic, ASMR-like qualities of their more recent video work. Their body of work points to the role of meditative openness to embodied experience in grasping the nature of spirit data, and the nature of visions as connective tissue or residue of the symbiosis between body data and spirit data. The slowness is not in a vacuum or a vortex, instead it coexists with the anxiety of daily life and visibility as a practice to be cultivated in private, in conversation, as an open secret, and with whatever is at hand to prepare oneself. The jitteriness of the artist's motions, in tandem with the calm pacing of voice and text, speak to this. Look at god. But remember the trap of visibility.

Safety Corporation during their takeover of Topical Cream's Instagram.


“Imagine if a vortex was laid out in a flat plane, its cylindrical character taking the body of nerve passages, grooves, lines, indents, valleys. Would your hands continue to tell time? Would your mouth see beyond a future of death?”

—Redeem Pettaway

“The ways which lead to sanctity are not the same in the West as in the East. The one proves its fidelity to Christ in the solitude and abandonment of the night of Gethsemane, the other gains certainty of union with God in the light of the transfiguration.”

—Vladimir Lossky

One could dismiss the symbiotic nature of visions as simply an error in body data, whether this looks like hallucination, mental illness, a confusion of reality and dream, or some other violent patronizing analysis. But I believe the questions of the mediated nature of reality are separate from what is at stake in Windows, which is really the recognition of black human life as an aspect of divinity, as worth protecting and preserving with our entire spirits and bodies without question.

In his consideration of the longue durée of slavery and its afterlife, Cedric Robinson stated in a lecture that the etymology of ‘slave’ is from ‘slav,’ going on to ask: “What does it mean to treat an African like a slav?” While the historical considerations here are beyond the scope of this essay, Robinson's statement allows us to draw a potential through-line between Pettaway's transtheological endeavor and the formal features of eastern Christian theology. Gnosis, or consciousness of union with God, has different locations in western and eastern Christianity, as Lossky's quote above states. Struggle and work characterize the western path toward gnosis, while the vision of Christ's transfiguration on the mount and the corresponding work of recognition characterize the eastern path.

Unlike its western counterpart eastern orthodoxy does not recognize a stark split between theology and mysticism. Their differing gnostic paths result in a split in method: western Christianity tends more toward cataphatic theology, or describing god with positive statements (e.g. God is love), while eastern Christianity tends more toward apophatic theology, or describing god with negative statements (e.g. God is not anything, since things are created). Roughly speaking, in the former, god's glory can be revealed, while in the latter, in the alien glow of transfiguration, the believer within god's fullness cannot access god's glory, which remains a bottomless mystery and incalculable horizon.

This same structure of horizon is present in Pettaway's output —the horizon of work mentioned before, which will take the entire spirit and reveal not the essence of the divinity of blackness, but the fullness of being within its glory. In this fullness we grieve that some mysteries remain forever unrevealed, but deliberate and speak with considered pause such that we might be ready for arriving visions. A horizon may be a kind of vortex, which normally would suck us in but when laid out in a plane takes on biological features, creating an impasse of recognition in transfiguration. With this image Pettaway speaks to the impossibility of knowing what the tools of sanctification and black liberation will look like, without betraying confidence in the experience of the recognition of the divinity of blackness in key moments of transfiguration. A black theology and mysticism are not separate, they are linked and indeed complete each other when freed from the confines of western Christian coloniality.

The vision of transfiguration: the moment of encounter with black holiness. Whereof we cannot speak, thereof we must remain silent.


Given the revolutionary tendencies of the black church, black syncretic religion, and African religion, it is unsurprising that Pettaway looks to spiritual structure as a potential archival format for the immaterial data that signals to the originary cybernetic nature of African mainland and diaspora. Windows gestures toward this cryptically with a sequence of the artist speaking back to the skull of Europe's march, followed by a scene with their hands behind their back and a paintbrush in their mouth. The work remains theologically ambivalent, refusing to place visions in any lineage despite its apophatic resonances. Instead it proceeds with something like the structure of a vision, while still remaining grounded and mundane to achieve an effect that blurs manifesto vibes, imposter syndrome, and studio boredom.

This ambivalence is key. Raised Pentecostal, I found myself bored and disaffected early on. Philadelphia church in the South Bronx —where we went every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday for a few years —is where I began playing drums (until they banned me from it after I refused to get baptized at age 13), writing poems on the backs of Sunday school handouts, and arranging detritus in the basement of the brownstone, which had a kitchen where the titis and welas made church lunch and a backyard area where I fooled around. Church is definitely a site for the slowness. But more importantly, its cultivation of critical attention points to ways in which despite an oppressive text, framing, or context, a network of care can emerge from the engagement, in which people gather, share resources, enjoy each other. For the group of Afrolatinx and mestizx people of my church, church offered an alternative nexus of relationships in the face of capitalist austerity, a site where we could articulate abundance not solely or even at all within canonical Christian frameworks, but in a mutual experiential project of survival.

This network of care, in which church is a community resource unrestricted to card-carrying born-again people, is really the horizon of the slowness for me. God has always had broader and fluid implications such as these in black context, where community itself is an expression of the fullness of divinity. In light of this, my hope is that this essay has done justice to the debt, gratitude, and love I feel for Redeem. In a way we are building a little church with our ongoing immaterial collaboration. The words for our friendship are not there, but the spirit data is.

by sidony o'neal


Here is a lumen. A metric that haunts most effectively from around the ankles. For instance, make a recline from the back of the eyes— then slowly utter the phrase, go to work.


Sisal is material made from vascular tissue, and…for enhancing texture in coatings application. If you find your hands opening and shutting at regular intervals. If you find your hands opening and


Just like that. Something half eaten contains a device which will never shut off. Turn around, cut away. Listen —they would stay a barbed hole if we didn't decide to teach them how to chew.


In a dream, it was finally your turn to wash the skulls clean, and you mock hurried inside to hide the fact that you would choose the weight of your own dense flesh —and again if you could.


Overlocking. Spirit woven into the garment hems around the ankles, the legs, the throat.


The quiet altar is presented to us in the form of an outstretched hand. How to calculate the grain, the stretch percentage, the amount of clean water wasted on a true stain.


Thank you, rushes out like an agreement with the unease of use. Legerdemain: what remains is always a question of hands, too.


A flash of red redelivers home. Another palmate whistle expelled, passing through the throat, in drape. How many archives? Why are we only asked to forgive what cannot be forgiven?


In this house of veins clogged with head sized universes rotating on a skewer; in this plane touch your ears to your ankles and know that you have done so when you return.


Overlocking. I think about the air drawn in to speak now imbricated, so many seams. And how sometimes the collusion of spirit and body can feel as though I am made of running glass.


Drape from your throat. We forgot the teeth at one funeral, and brought somebody else toes to the next. For every time we have chosen to run, to test the toxicity of light —one weapon.


Turn it up. Watch it again. Turn it up.

by manuel arturo abreu

Untitled (Church)

humbled into obscurity

I look at you and see a pew

caked with hand smudge

in a starless gulp of night

ten ways this minimalist

concrete poem

is like my abuela

al verte las flores lloran

Untitled (Shame)

soon i hope to become tired

of punishing myself

in a sense your face

is already sacred for me

i will not repent

from this close harmony

the memory itself is murky

but the hole it leaves

is so crisp it seems ironed

Don't blame yourself

This is a violent season

Untitled (Petty)

being lipless,

no mayo has

Ever truly kissed.

We call this

The Hours of Dust

What does it matter how many lovers you have if none of them gives you the universe?

petgirl working on her novel called

"Yeoman Eschaton"

Fam… Let's go back

to the days when we filmed internet

content with potatoes

Manic pixie dream cuck

Simply vaping in christendom

Plot twist: all media is social

Impossibility of private language

wages should be waged

Block me, sweet dove

If cheeto was a real patriot he would sacrifice his life to Christ.

It will be tragic for them* when they realize they are not holy

One of my godsisters is named jetty

Goals: dick shaped like the spiral jetty


Space gulag

DJ Bird Leaf

Grandma was right when she told me

the computer had demonios in it

Give up looking for what haunts

My sevens have mustaches now

All growed up

DJ Lil Yung

Suburbanization of affect


0-auth 0-day 0-tay

A foregone ghost of pettiness remained

Deez nuts is the refutation of inherence

A flogged and desecrated hurt in clog body

Trout mask original.

my first tattoo will be the entire bee

movie script in a font size that fits on

a grain of rice's surface area

en el espejo espero ver mi enfermedad pero solamente veo a Cantinflas

Forced to live authentically

sometimes i want to live but i remember that we are already dead and this world is hell.

by Winslow Laroche

end of season theme

doubling down to save yr platform

doubling down to save yr platform

in a sensibile heel

there will always be purple

on afternoons where blood

red piano keys punch and bounce

a song know 2 u n me n them n i n III n IIIIIIIIIIIIIII n IIIIIIIIiii

don't believe that if sounds must be felt

that they breathe singularly

untethered 2 a strings section

(like) dancing on crimson

n reluctance, galloping, choppy steps

towards a star

there r always stars

they follow me

where i diffuse bombs for fun

flint fingertips attachments

gunpowder n ground metal

electric guitar on blast


open chords

three harmonies

at first

reverberating wind-winds

then a monologue of ivory

remember that everyone needs rest

picardy third then back to one, back 2 back,

Blackstreet was told not to come back

reason 2 live #919

tfw a Black person fixes

an anime character's design

prompt 4 yt writers

make a poem that looks like a gun

now bop it, pull it

shoot yrself tho


experienced portal jumpers

on an evening parade of burning

flower wreaths of orange and yellow

a curse known 2 few

spoken in tongue

anointed tip

coconut oiled

tied in a knot

real Gs ride silent

like watching a cop

bleed out on a 60 degree day

don't even bother calling home

rocket power

robots and aliens

would look at this

planet's history objectively

and say to themselves

‘wow, y'all humans lived like this?

they did y'all wrong! how long

was chattel slavery?! then they

rebranded that shit on y'all, flipped it,

and made y'alls' petit bourgeois

into puppets 2 help divide

global Black harmony?’

they would beam us up

one by one 4 a needed

vacation while they torched

yt owned buildings

and destroyed as many

white boxes that could be found.

they would help us

fight the state stationed

robots n the remaining

yt strongholds in the metropolises.

robots r aliens r fam until proven otherwise.