I was speaking to a graduate of Notre Dame Architecture program last night and he claimed that "architecture is an art, not a science".

I think he might be right. The principles upon which the "science" of architecture are based are inherently practical. Will it stand up? How much will it cost? How long will it last? How will it fit my lifestyle? What kind of Place for Me will it be? All the rules of proportion are aimed to fulfill the answers to these questions.

Yet from principles there ought to be demonstration. Is there no demonstration in architecture? Is it not to be demonstrated that objectively the most pleasing configuration of a wall is one with an odd number of windows and an even number of buttresses, according to the configuration of the human who has an odd number of openings and an even number of supports?

People are weird. And stupid.

I'm going to go work on my th...

oww.

I liken my thesis to a large, half-carven oaken stump. With claw marks.

I'm going to be a good boy and go work on my thesis....

Writing something poetic would feel really good right now. *shifts keyboard on desk*

Reminds me of when I sit down with a blank piece of paper and a pencil with a subject in front of me waiting to be drawn. And I sit there with pencil poised over the paper. And I look at the pencil, and I look at the paper, and I remember that I have no time to draw right now.

I'm going to go work on my thesis.

It's Saturday!

I'm going to be a good boy and work on my thesis, so I can....

It's Friday!

I'm going to be a good boy and work on my thesis, and get my seminar readings done, so I can get to ride my bike this weekend! (in the rain?)

I love the new chain and sprockets, btw. Tis like getting a new transmission, or shaft drive, or something. I'm enjoying it while it lasts, or 600 miles till the new chain stretches and needs a tighten.

oh, this summer is going to be hell. I can see it coming from five miles away. I think I should find another job that I love better and other people that I love worse.

oh, never mind.

Really.

Shit.

(my profound apologies to all of you who have to put up with my dirty mouthfingers; I try to keep it to a minimum, but it won't go away, and I'm not enough of a poet to work around it. Sorry. Deal with it.)

someone grabs and squeezes the brake on the windlass and I slide

resurrection

the rope soaks in layers of skin

blood is running down my forearms over my shoulders

but I'm saved from the mossy stones

no longer falling no longer moving

now

if only the shreds can begin to climb

slimy hand over slimy hand

Yes, ordinarily I come back from a ride feeling like I'm on top of the world, but today I come back feeling like the world is on top of me.

I can't think. I did something stupid. I don't know exactly what it was. Maybe nothing.

I'm so screwed. What did I do?

what did i do what did you do what do you think you did orange eyes and a growl in the trees run dammit run, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide yes you are going to face consequences this time run run run faster i opened an old wound not far enough i didn't run far enough orange eyes and a growl and i forgot she hunts with the wolf RUN RUN dammit RUN FAST

there is not enough alcohol left in the closet

*grumble* Motorcycles are supposed to cost LESS than cars in maintenance, not more. *grumble*

In the process of arranging for sprocket and chain replacement. There goes all my dreams of a fun semester off-campus spending money. Why, oh for crying out loud why did I not catch this before I bought the bike in November?

(because I was in a hurry)

Do I really want to go to architecture school?

Do I want to go to theology class this afternoon?

Do I want to wake up tomorrow? (Don't answer that.)

There is snow on the surrounding peaks; I ought to get my bike back this afternoon (fingers crossed) and if I do, I fully intend to make tracks for someplace where I can at least touch some ice...

EXISTENTIALism! rain fog sparks and crackles.

the child staggers
the sword is heavy
he cannot wield it
the point drags across the ground
the child begs for help to sharpen it
laughter echoes around him
he lifts the sword before him
despair lightens the sword
and further dulls the edge

(someone was whistling Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
very loudly and flatly as she pushed a broom. I wanted to strangle her)

Suzi blew an oil seal on the freeway this morning and spit fork oil all over my shinguards. Oh how I hate it when my machines break, it's like betrayal. I bought a motorcycle hoping it wouldn't require as much maintenance as my car did, and so far it's needed just as much: a faulty front brake switch, oil leaks, and now this....

ye gods...

Well, it's going back to Howdy, because I don't have time, tools or space to disassemble the whole damned front fork. I'd love to do it, but I don't have the time and I don't have the special Suzuki tools.

I sat on one of these this morning. Oh my gosh.

It's taller, lighter, and fits better than my current ride, and my current ride fits pretty damn well. It's significantly uglier than my current ride, though.

Nonetheless, I want one.

30 mph, wind spilling over the windshield into my face (I didn't realize there were so many hacienda style houses along Foothill Road above the bustle and clatter of urban Ventura) a full-size Dodge truck crosses the street ahead of me (I bet those houses are expensive. They sure are pretty.) a manhole cover slaps my suspension briefly (I will have to bring my sketchpad up here some time.) the sun glitters off the ocean in the distance and large black chevrons point me around a sweeping curve (Funny, I'm accumulating a mental roster of places to bring my sketchpad to, without ever actually getting any drawing done). Clouds are building on the faraway mountains (is it going to rain tomorrow?)

The world is a beautiful place, seen from astride a motorcycle. It's only when I stop and park and leave it and go away to submerge again in daily strains and insoluble problems that the world becomes ugly and twisted...

Previously, uncut:

Sold

this kid in line and matrix
he does what he's told, he's locked in grid
commands and obedience, obedience
but still he thinks outside the ranks
he won't be a slave to the ranks

he's marching, marching down this wet muddy road
in the rain and the dark and the cold
there is a young woman
strength beyond weakness
dragging an old man
weakened beyond strength
drags him off the road into the weeds
the trudging column bears down upon them
the woman holds the man up, emaciated, scarred
the column marches by
heavy lockstep, unseeing, unknowing
black, belted tower after tower after tower
there is only pain for the two of them
the kid soldier sees them in the weeds, sees
their pain and hunger
wishes he could help
he doesn't know why, he doesn't know
why he should care, it's only a pair of dead animals
excommunicated for crimes against the matrix
but he's just a kid he does what he is told
his neighbor's rifle slaps him back to lockstep
the kid looks back

Vivere et cogito.

Let there be a dimension of existence transcending the mind. Didn't I ever get that feeling looking deeply into a person's eyes that there were some realities incapable of speech? Incapable of communication in any other way? Thus perhaps incapable of being understood in any way?

Nietzsche wants to point out the possible existence of another sphere unfettered by intellectual prejudice...

(raises hand) I posit that there is a place in the world for anti-Chestertonians . Not that I am one, but common sense only goes so far. Granted that it goes far enough for common life, but I assert that common sense does not go far enough to be satisfactory to me. I mean, why the hell should it?

"So, when do you want to ride my motorcycle?"

"Wait, how big is your motorcycle?"

"It's an 1100."

"Isn't that really huge? Like I was thinking, I start out on the little 400's and 500's.

"Yes, it's really huge. It's a musclebike."

"And you think I can handle it."

"And I think you can handle it." She handles like a kitten, really, just don't tip her over, and I'm sorry I didn't trust you with heavy machinery all these years. I can't tell you, but it's really just a leftover instinct that keeps me from trusting small women with quick reactions to the controls of powerful machinery. I'm sorry.

"It's okay, it's manageable...if you keep her below 4000 rpm. If you rev her up to 5000 rpm then she gets scary. After 6000 rpm she turns into an animal, and I revved her to 7500 I think once on the freeway. I dreamt last night that I ran her up to 8000, but the memory was disjointed and I can't remember if it was accompanied by any burning rubber or spewing oil. Oh yes oil. Don't be surprised if she spits on you. There are numerous (grumble) oil leaks."

I think the subject is closed, and she won't bring it up again. She's busy, and she'll forget. On the other hand, depending on how thoroughly her imagination was captured by the MSF course, she just might take me up on this one...