before computer generated models, we did what we could... in a spirit closer to freedom --- far from civilization

"Beauty" had a dream. She imagined herself flying, above the city searching for something that wasn't obvious. A detail? A place? A feeling? That was her ultimate goal. Escape from behind bar and start searching. She wasn't quite sure she'll find it. But "Beauty" was a dreamer. And she knew it was out there. Or maybe she was just waiting for us.For you, me, him. To break the bar and let her go free.

There was a time when Souls were heard and Love was kept in a little box of Secrets
Virgin Dreams trembled in hands of despair
Among the hearts of Men whose songs were sung
A Music no instrument could play
A voice unwielded by the mouths of Earth
Only Believed

Like so many plights, it lingered in the Dreams of
The Righteous
The Psalms of the Devout
And the Cathedrals where Hearts are as vast, epic and empty
Save the crystalline Light falling on
Prayers ancient as Dust

There was a Time when the Darkness gave us Light
We ranted
We converted
We conquered
Zealous and Hungry was our Dark-Light
So many Souls
Gone

We who are Sword are no more
We who are Gun are no more
We who are Serpent are few
The weight of the Human Body wakens
Soon shall become prophecy,
Dream
And wake no more

high

Temporary eternity. Time. Passing by. In history. In your everyday. On a wall. Layers. Of completeness. Each layer adds more time. One word more to complete our life sentences. There is more. To our eternal lingering.

enough smog. enough traffic. enough enough enough.

He listens desperately to his portable clock hoping to find that moment when nostalgia walked naked among men lighting candles within Human darkness

11th and Broadway I watched the afternoon Sun stroll patiently down the facade of a building. It paused in wonder at one who looks up while others mill and scurry on the streets below

The patterns and movement of vehicles and pedestrians find their death and life within the Urban system

The heightening of elevations offers varying perspectives of travel and observation: on the one hand, the City is a malevolent monster. On the other, poetry of beauty and structure

Each place is but a moment and is never the same place as before. It spreads before us like an open road: the Day, the Night, where the Earth meets Humanity and Humanity struggles to meet that place where the journey is everlasting

The land. Through time. A change in form. Conquest. Loss.

It's very subtle, almost quiet, that moment between contemplation and motion, between thought and scenario; a man turns a page, a child laughs and plays with her brothers a few seats away, the bus growls and sighs at each burden it dismisses and accepts. Within all these things, a destination is taking place. A transformation as the City scrolls past the windows framed by moments between consciousness and dream.

It's very subtle, almost quiet, yet he turns the page while the cinema of the City plays out around him; unconscious that even he is playing in a story that involves us all...

And there they were. By the window. Now they could do a different thing. They could listen to the sounds of the the city outside. Usually it is their job. To produce music. Sounds. Symphonies. Now that the daily break had come they are free, to listen. To the music. From outside. And we look. Trying to imagine their absent poetic sound. The luthier will be back. Soon.

Who am I?

It's an ancient question even the most remotely sentient homosapien has either uttered it or thought of it at some point in their lives but this is his life, which casts a vague uniqueness; not entirely epistemological, more so into the metaphysics of human nature. The bus rides seems an eternity, especially when these questions stranges the mind, one becomes aware of how unwelcome the vast horizon becomes. He tried to focus on today's paper. More of the same: Cooperation fighting to gain control of their dwindling assets, skirmishes and wars breaking out in foreign countries, the government still trying to push the docile beast of public duty over its half-witted subjects and politicians--mindless serpents--still gambling over public ignorance. He put the paper down in despair. He thought about his two sons and their families. His youngest just had his third child, Amelia, but they only sent him pictures of the newly remodeled room and the crib. An empty room! Who sends their father pictures of empty rooms? His eldest son would send him medium format photographs of places he's been, of things and, what he could tell, of vacation spots he and his wife were on but none of them showed himself nor his wife.

I am 56 years old. I work security for an industrial firm in Van Nuys. I have two sons who never step foot in the house after we sent them to college. I am married, for 32 years now, but haven't seen my wife for twelve of those years... He looked down at his hands, they were tensing up, shaking violently. He didn't understand why he felt so much anger. The thought of returning home night after night to an empty, desolate home burned, to the very core, his heart. They were away, far beyond his reach. Soon, though he dared not think it, he might forget them entirely. The hairs stood on the back of his neck and he felt a cold chill pass. He rubbed his forearms, looking over, unconsciously, across from him. A strange woman seated with an unusual skin color. piercing black eyes bearing a hauntingly beautiful yet expressionless face. Their eyes met a moment. He saw, for the brief time his eyes investigated her, a gold necklace with a pendant in the shape of a heart. In the center of it a name he could not pronounce: Dauthr. He unconsciously touch his chest. His heart was racing. He was perspiring as well. He turned his head away and closed his eyes. Who am I? He grinned at himself. 'My stop is coming up. I guess I'll find out then.'

too much all the time. more nothing.more absence. less less of so much.

Surrounded by movement{s}. Surrender of time. Strangely fitting in an {ec}-static moment of loud silence.

Who am I? A reader? A writer? The director of the urban storyline?

Or just a stranger, a new line in the unstructural grid of life.

We are all indentured residents of this Theater called: The City! By definition, the City is a community of Human Strangers; built, in part, by the theology of our desires: of our dreams and nightmares, of our hopes and tragedies. of our loves, fears, guilt and our hatred. Ultimately our life and death.

We are streams of poetry, blurs of passion and arrogance. We encounter the Other's Tale briefly,

then pass away; a trace, a ghost, leaving remnants of consequence to roam the streets and by-ways.

Each of us enacts our perspective and though our views, the City becomes a kaleidoscope of experience.

a week outside of the studio, being in open spaces, hearing different sounds, being back home, it's completely new. exploring now, all the wonderful sensations I didn't see, feel, or hear before! being a stranger in one's own space, is always so refreshing, now to start some new adventures in a familiar old place...

An empty place. A white spatial/special page. Darkness around us. Let's play! Let's start running around! Let's leave a trace. Lines, forms, directions, words, screams and lights. We can mark our territory. We can underline our presence. We can design a ephemeral castle. In emptiness. Let's play. A pure spectacle. Then, suddently the lights will disappear. Darkness will prevail. But still, we can keep playing.

Dance aloud and unbound!

Sing with your soul the beautiful lyrics of joy!

Play in the rain! Chase the rainbows that vault the azure skies! Remember when horizons were dreams and innocence spawned the phantastic! Death is an enchantment. Its enticements are simple but few.

Gallop through the lands of Evil unafraid and play among the Gardens of the Gods!

run around. go nuts. do whatever you want. anytime you please. even if it's sometimes in your head.

Emptiness. Realm. Absence yet imaginary presence. Micro and macro. शून्यता. Philosophy. Identity. Languages. Urination. Music. Blindness. Height. Deepness. A word of absence. Then the creative process starts. You fill the blank. Walls, ideas, colors, notes, feelings, dimensions, time, coordinates. The absence turns into presence. But does it matter? Better the void than an absent presence.

Emptiness. The abscence that fills the hollows after presence has moved on. Memories lying on the edge of consciousness. The sensation of Love after the warmth has gone. The value of objects of the arbitrary or a room that suddenly became empty encountering your presence

a photograph taken at the louvre on one of my repeated escapades attempting to understand a sculpture. a big hole in my memory. without the remnants of the moment, I would've forgotten. but then and again, the photograph having found some way into my present, makes it something that maybe deals with the past...

I have now traversed the the threshold of twilight, standing in a quiet building while the noise of my life crashes about like some rambunctious child within my head. The fissures are showing and I get to witness my life from the dizzying heights of remembrance, staring at the vast densities as if it was the City itself--convoluted, intricate and secret--waiting for the Sun to crash among the horizon. I cannot closed my eyes for long (one cannot wander through one's life in the dark), so I jaunt through the depths of Vertigo to see what it means to be Human. I tend to forget. The claustrophobia of forgetting forces me from its narrow hallways to the open-streets where the irony of the young are displayed among the catastrophe of architecture. Steam erupts from the hyperbole of their current flesh and I see the waste of precious energy that I secretly long for...

And I get dizzy again.

The world d'volves from saturated technicolor to somber gray-scale then black. I awake in a familiar place. "Mr. Davis, your blood pressure is extremely high and your heart... your heart is enlarged..." I tried to close my eyes again. That dizzying spell was purposely medicated and now some stranger was telling me my life is...

But I couldn't focus!

I watched my room bellow and laugh in carnival about me. Yet I laid there struggling not to be a shadow.

Now I stand at the highest point of a random building. I stare down at the cluster of pedestrians and I have the urge to fly. But I don't jump. That dizzying feeling becomes a sensation that rushes through. I still don't jump. I smile to myself wryly. I just altered the space and intended purpose of this building as this building altered a fundamental psyche I held within me. I gave up the idea of throwing myself to the mercy of the City and sat on the floor next to the window and watched the City slowly burn in the encroaching night.

I'm looking down. An empty lot. I was there in the past. Just before walking up these steps. I look above the city lights. Is that south? I'll be there in the future. When I'll drive home later on. Now I'm here. In the present. Looking simultaneously at the past and at the future. Below. And above. Tomorrow the empty lot will be full. Animated. Alive. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll be south. Looking back at the past. I will not be on this floor. Someone else probably will. Now I'm dizzy. I don't like heights. I should walk back down. Towards my future.

I live on the 19th floor. but I don't see rooftops since this may be the shortest building in my area!though if I did, I'd always imagine jumping from one to the other!like in a roman polanski film, except there are no bad guys. just pigeons and lost pet parakeets!

I know I will die.

Tomorrow bears a scythe!

When the storm comes the Moon rises against a terrifying Night as Dawn dissipates from our memories.

When the last of the Seraphs have fallen from God's vengeance only to be consumed by Zealots, Mad-men and religious fanatics, one discovers life is not about "Life"! Life ceased to be the very moment we were taken from our Mother's womb. We breathe the air. We walk the streets conforming to the vices and virtues of Social Humanity making friends, losing lovers and crying in the ever deepening blue of twilight.

Yet we are haunted by a "good-bye" built on an architecture of dreams. Stone by brittle stone have fallen on the heads of the wise and the ignorant alike.

The mourning burns like the Sun in the minds of the enlightened!

Salvation has taken its leave

and our stones are but dust!

Lost

{E-c}-statically

Among

Visual

Enlightenments

no more parties. no more preparations.no more late nights. it's all over.. . for a while. back to work.

We are assaulted by organized entanglements! Nets--genres, lifestyles, political stances, deviance--the demarcations are so well managed that they are almost invisible to our daily experiences. "So, you want to be a writer?" and they shove you into a net full of antiquated ideas and skeletons of the past.

Maybe I'm just paranoid at seeing this glut of repetition we depend on so much! But this too is a Net! "Are you here to learn Architecture?" and by default they bombard you with militaristic geometries where people's lives are defined by volumes and spaces and circumstantial situations. Even Freedom is a form of Net!

What, exactly, defines us?

Water. {in}-finite surface. I feel trapped. In my own territory. Enemies from above. And down under. Deepness. I am searching for food. Food is searching for me. Blue. Water. Sky. Mood. I need to be careful. I do not want to be trapped.
Technology. {in}-finite space. Sometimes I feel trapped. In my other territory. Enemies from the inside. And from the outside. Deepness. I am searching for food. My virtual food. Informations. Colors. Black and White. I need to be careful. I do not want to be trapped. Like a fish in the water. The net can capture you too. A techno fish in deeper space.

having to deal with the business of making buildings, I try to picture my projects at their most extreme possiblities. mostly, the most ridiculous... perhaps covering an entire project in a net --- (making an aviary for birds. with the house inside it.) the hot chocolate exploded in the microwave oven. fascinating to see it blow up and freeze frame in the process. virutally, throwing the limits of the liquid to it's extreme capacity. if and only if it could be built! all that is left are the markings, which looks a bit like some barnett neuman drawing... if I squinted..now, that is much easier to translate...

It takes me everywhere. Through cities, neighborhoods and alleys. It takes me to the future yet it suddently brings back the past. Words, sentences and meanings. The end of the sentence, a new beginning. New words, sentences and meanings. It underlines. It erases. It forms shapes and thoughts. Reality and imagination. Everyday real~fictional~stories. I keep going. But now I realize that I can only go on for few miles. Where is the next Ink~Station?

keep moving even if it's only in your head. move around. explore old concepts. read old books. open those old doors. not into the past. but into the present. driving the present into other presents that weren't evident before.

She strolls through the urban aisle with her swollen, sweat-stained back against the sun shopping for nothing in particular. She stopped before a picture window in awe wondering how incredibly beautiful and cold people are, motionless before a million eyes, displaying themselves for purchase.
She pushed onwards, always against the flow, making a right on Third Avenue. "This is pretty." she said to her Other, pulling the bright yellow garment from the trash bin, holding it against the ruins of her breasts with a smile full of despair. "Yes, it's very pretty." said her Other. "You will have to try it on." "I will... One day...." She slung it over the side of her shopping cart, now serving a more basic function of vehicular consumerism, smiling anxiously at the blur of pedestrians who refuse to see her; a rare time that she felt happiness and no one noticed.

Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac

Can you hear it? It is the sound of time passing by. Where? In front of me. Behind me. Cogito ergo sum was once said. I am. I do not only think. I also write my thoughts down. Anywhere and everywhere. On a sheet, on a notebook, on toilet paper. I write my thoughts therefore I am. Time is passing by. It just said hallo to me with a deep intense smile. I love time. My friend and my enemy. I spend half of my time thinking. I spend the other half writing my thoughts, while time passes again by me. A goodbye. Til the next half!

deadlines deadlines deadlines. only I see it finished. no one else seems to know what is going on! makes me laugh! keeps the mystery alive! and some excitement!

Am I the right or the left? Or am I an equation of the two? The document states: "The other side of the Right is Logic. The other side of the Left is Imagination. The interaction of these opposing forces creates the signature we call Humanity."

On a planet where the 'surface' defines the movement of Human Reality, It is the Other Half, the primordial beauty and wisdom rarely seen and experienced in our global culture (not necessarily the institutions that commercialize the lack of our halves---you already know what they are). When the time comes, our halves will meet. That will be an interesting day indeed.

I am a vessel

Born from intimate strangers and cast aside to the Urban abandon.

Blue is the perennial color of absence, a twilight where emptiness roams the hearts of men.

The sun shines everyday and night falls soon after.

No one sees me mourning.

No one hear the brittle howl from this lonely soul.

All they see is a vessel shattered by the infantile hands of Life

useless

old

and Empty.