Stand like a pillar
Of salt, now lick your wounds and
Try to quench your thirst
by lunchtime she'd be dead
You ignored me at the simming pool when I approached
The desert sun glinted off the flat roof top
Manny was your choice not mine
The call asked for grid details and map locations
I rushed through the tumbleweed to the spot
The spot where it was to happen
A van pulled up
My heart raced
A shot rang out
You fell, I shout
First attempt at Pulp Fiction. Kaufmann house a beautiful piece of modern architecture set in the desert in Palm Springs. I set an imaginery scene there with this poem. I have visited Palm Springs. You can find snow at the top of teh cable car in May and intense sun at ground level.
The cube, the sphere
and the triangle
Building blocks, visionary shapes
that brace wind, cut clouds
Industrial smoke goes against
the grain of architecture
Maybe we can find where
they breathe tomorrow in naturally
It will be opaque and after breakfast
arrested by cantilevered thoughts
A ripple in the calm
whirlpool above the falls
As Liliane enjoys swimming
in the **** and collecting modern art
By nightfall and before the uniting
there's a solemn dream to be had
within the libretto of a Shining Brow
The contents of Froebel gifts
form organic steps, and led us
Wright to the water's edge
For Frank Lloyd Wright (1867-1959)
We are naked when born
Choosing our place among forlorn ancestors
After death, a structured life denotes our span
Our modern thinking will not save the hunger pangs
For the meals are crisp, delightful as religious rites are
Born are we to serve our fathers
Who give everything to their fathers
Living a life of servitude
Never striding next to kings
What of the princes knowing no solicitude
We are only mere classmates
In a college of wisdom
Wizened by the plight of our teachers
To lead a nation or cure cancer
We are naked to ourselves, as we are simply accident-prone
If we linger on in this blue planet
Life most come to a tragic end
Where the followers of the chapel proceedings
Get the most out of this age-old tradition
Often divorcing logic from religion
I beckon to the thinkers, who I know, to understand rather than relish.
I've seen foreign stones bleed out fountains of wanderlust down your waterfalls
I've seen shards of mirrors swimming in the ripples of your sea
The one's that still hold the reflection belonging to the wandering passerby on your streets
I've watched as droplets of ink from a sunset sky pour onto your maps
Colouring in the roads that lead to your history
I've seen the flowers in your gardens spread their fragrance onto the sleeves of those lost in your alleys
And the soil underneath them surrounds the seeds of friendship that they leave behind
I've seen hope in the layers of your canyon rock
And resilience in the avalanches of snow that tumble down your mountains
I've seen the architecture of your emotions towering over my outstretched hand
And now I sit by the water trying to paint a picture of your roads on its surface
My hand reaches out into the distance, waiting for the light of your moon to embrace it
And I watch as the stars paint constellations that remind me of you
I dwell in the lonesome nostalgia, recollecting every fading memory
Hoping that when the sun glitters on the surface of your water
You'll see me sitting there, painting a picture of you
The buildings are square
Lost is the taste
Profits are calling
Often built in haste
What an insult to the past
In this beautiful space
Opportunity to inspire
But more than likely a waste
You've been given a vacant terrain,
somewhere crowd of green grasses
a meeting place of tall trees.
Go straight from that vacant terrain to the paper.
With sunlight, air movement and some related content, You draw some 2D lines.
Each line carries the meaning.
You also make them in many different shapes.
At the same time, hundreds of calculations and ideas are exchanged with new thinking.
A 3D form of imagination that builds on thin lines.
Where you can imagine gestures used by users, shuttle of light somewhere, and fair use of green etc.
which make meaningful sense of that space.
Which actually constitutes invisible mass.
Then you are there to make your invisible mass visible,
At the end, it becomes visible.
the architecture: our design, our formulation
we design as we go along.
plans develop themselves organically.
somehow, we formalize, organize spontaneity.
learning-as-we-go, ourselves teaching each other’s selfs.
celebrating, locating our tangent intersections,
plotting points on the X Y axes of us.
labelling our quadrants,
past, now, planned but yet-to-be,
the unknown unknowns,
all upon blue lined graph skins.
a formula of a celebrated curvature, two unknowns, solvable, we are quadratic.
the precise precious precarious solution,
a single square root,
that intuits the wee of our
our solution is annotated for all
mathematicians as the
square root of us.
somewhere in the internals
To what extent have we followed the dreams of mortal men? Conjuring the images of glass and metal, bending it to our will.
All the while destroying the world of plants and wood.
These religions tell us that the End will be brought by deities and demons. It seems as if to say we are the demons, as when the world of green dies, so will we as punishment for mass consuming and wasteful manners.
So we will die
But it's too late to stop now, it's already the middle of the ending.
My Biology teacher brought up a good point a few months ago that has stayed with me for a while.
Connecting the Unconnected
((Material, Bonds, Time...))
Bonds, Time, Material