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.
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
hey architect, 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.
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. And yet- 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.