Posts Tagged Architecture
You looked through
the windows blocking
my soul, tres-
olating love, wiping the
thought, trashing heaven.
Not-so-dystopian today, amateur Carl’s repossessed America. America 2017 #3.
Rarely, there is a day
with razor clarity, all the
edges, sharp, no fuzziness on the
round spiders, when the sun
creates millions more colors
than god originated, where
streets are empty but not
unfriendly, warm like blankets,
when architecture pops at me,
telling me man could not make
those buildings without god,
and while two days ago, the
sun’s fall angle burnt depression
on to my fingernails, today,
the angle is close to
perfect, where there is no
high noon, and I look
out from within my catacombs,
high above the gray, pock-marked
street, and all of me but some frail
string of spirit wants to
jump, knowing it is only with that
clarity in how it will end quickly.
Around all of the tall buildings again,
a tourist but not touring, afraid of all
those who see him want to look up
and stare at the buildings, imagining
the brains behind these things. They
only see his temptation, but they know
he’s a brain-dead idiot. Who is so fouled
that he likes to look up and stare at the
buildings for many, many, many
minutes? Carl is a mess, too embarrassed,
feeling the stress of wanting to look up
forever but knowing that the others who
are walking the tumbling streets will laugh
outwardly and hatefully if they see a boy
who is big enough to be a man but is a
kindergartner, small-minded enough to look
up at buildings as if he is looking for some
god. What a feeble man he is! He sees
the beauty of the lines and wants to be
smart enough to design these beauties,
but instead, he is too stupid to watch for
This piece started as a poem, but I am not poetic enough.
I sit, incredulous at the sound of so many trillions of rain drops (and this, a very gentle rain). Closing my eyes, I feel hands crunching foil forever. That is the sound but foil isn’t so magical. The forms of nature that surround me are impossible to comprehend. The cycles of nature are perfect throughout some avenue. The tall and narrow pines are stretching for light. The bursts of Aspen trees, how the rain so perfectly, seemingly, offsets the sun. Or how the two combine, far more powerful than any of humankind’s creations.
Surveying: Here in Branson, there are tiny hills, steep hills, steep foot hills, and man has tried to tame those with his town. I’m short on education. I don’t understand the most simple engineering. Our A-frame cabin baffles me. How do they know that the roof will accept the weight of what shall fall on it, relying on that simple, disturbingly-thick log through the middle? Those sides of the structure should wobble back and forth but they stick in place because people have learned. I can’t learn what the people have learned. I can’t manage the physical surroundings of my world. (I can’t manage the mental aspects of my surroundings, but that is a topic for another day.) I count on people who have an education to build these structures, and you’ll see me with my mouth agape at even the smallest engineering concepts. Even things which most people comprehend with the most basic common sense are amazing to me. I sit here and wonder why it is that I cannot keep up with humankind’s engineering brilliance.
Humankind has straight lines of all of the types you will ever imagine, and then when they do those perfect circles, you have to be astounded at how those are created to appear to be so perfect. All of these things that stand that should not stand, in my mind. I see one of the country “opera” houses. It is towering with the front of a Southern mansion, with hundreds of beautifully-crafted, square windows that have lines of small wood frames cutting through at perfect 90-degree angles. Amazing height, columns that appear to be impossible to construct. Most people might be flabbergasted at how stupid I am, at how these little things that man creates are impossible for me to understand. These things stand as miracles before my eyes, allowing my mind to wander over endless creations of man without ever being satisfied in having understanding.
Yet, I sit here with crinkling tin foil in nature’s surround sound, and I remember that as I drove through town today, the other thing that amazed me is how run down America is. If you open your eyes, man’s creations are crumbling all over, and maybe one piece in a hundred pops up as newly constructed, but how long will it last? When I was in New York City last month, instead of being struck, I was stricken at how that city looked like a modern-day collection of Roman or Greek ruins. When I looked just right, there were no people and it was the most un-survivable mess I have ever seen. I could see that we have failed to survive as a civilization as I saw the most rotten pile of creation ever known – Amazingly, in relative terms, a pile of garbage that did not take long to create. Even the brand new buildings looked to be very near death, perhaps because they were surrounded by death. So as I sit here, serenaded by nature’s cymbals, it occurs to me that nature’s creation, regardless of its source, a god or some other spiritual, creative flow, is the most powerful, is the only one that seems to last, even after we have worked to destroy it. I am not any kind of environmental wacko, but it was merely frightening to me that no matter how much genius seems to be behind all of these structures that humankind creates for itself, especially the most monumental ones, the ones created to worship the power of our brains and accomplishments, are merely beasts that are temporary like a tiny speck of sand in the huge General Electric engines of a Boeing 747. They are dissipating before they are even finished, just as we are, it seems.
Yet, while I sadly watch it all go faster than it should, I do relish in all of the creature comforts which my brain is far too small for understanding – This computer, the air conditioning, the roof over my head, the heat, the medical care for when I’m broken. Yes, I will enjoy those for as long as I last, or perhaps for as long as they last.
Convoluted, dirty glass.
Tan plaster leans.
He doesn’t want to see your face again.
Windows to the souls are clean.
More towering glass stands behind
as if modern culture
is the only core for humanity.
Doesn’t seem possible.
Seems to be a cesspool.
Walk, slowly, the diluted pastures.