Happy Easter if you celebrate Christ’s Resurrection. There’s some dude dressed up like the Easter Bunny halfway down the block and seeing him from my window freaks me out. I don’t understand how some man sweating in a polyester get-up is celebratory. I don’t understand celebration in general. I tried to celebrate the day by going up to the _. The _ that will always be one of my favorite places. So much has happened around my time w_ on it. [Huge chunk of tangents removed, 475 words, mostly about being in a bad way, about the shit _’s putting me through, about the co-worker from April 14 and how he just loves making sure everyone know he reads Zizek digitally orthographicized, Žžžžžžžž fml gfy pretentious whatever i see right thru all yr shit.] Before I went up to the woods, I went to church because I figured my father would want me to. I sat there blaming god a little bit, maybe wished I had the capacity to believe in something, avoided selfish prayer, prayed for my parents, prayed for my mom, prayed my dad would live past 75, thought that maybe this city is too easy, prayed to my dead godmother, thought about sewing rosette appliques on all my summer clothing (pink ones, black ones, should they have leaves), thought about the gardener bit and all those weird illustrations of the Resurrection from Catholic school with blanking yellow tulips in them, thanked my father’s God that people aren’t obliged to hold hands while Our Fathering. The 7-year-old was right to cringe at my version of Sunday best.

I spend my breaks at work reading though old architecture publications from a time / times when everything was worth problematizing, that have sections devoted to book reviews (rather than measly 2-4 spread pages with Oh this is great and you need to own it snippets beneath porny images) with text margin to margin and no cover images, that make me wonder what the shit the practice has gotten itself into (meta-representation, technological hullabaloo, material ooo-la-la, kids drawing other people’s dreams, ambivalence) all while chomping on some random selection of apples from Farmers. On the 6 ride home, I was bored. A loud pack of women in skinny jeans (on their phones), Asian man eyeing Asian woman (on her phone) sitting next to me who was wearing $300 heeled booties with white H athletic socks(???), some mother (on her phone) with her kid in a bear onesie, some dude (on his phone) who looked sharp but had the wrong shoes on, some girl wearing khaki tones and carrying a big brown bag (on her phone), a plus-size woman in garish athletic clothes reading a grocery store novel, a dude with mild/moderate acne in a barn jacket reading The Idiot, a lot of walking sitting dawdling advertising. Couldn’t stay focused on the G I was reading and added to the Notes collection on my phone instead. When I was not on my breaks at work today, I exceeded my tasks for the day. Some one liner kept going through my head, likely directed at the not-really-new/new-to-me kid who is joining the office (again) tomorrow: Don’t propose an idea for a project if you’re not willing to work on it. Read: If it’s an idea you’ll count on me to complete, sorta GFY. I write that, but I’m really good at picking up the slack and picking up where people leave off and making dreams come true and—at the ideas shit too. Dealing with this frustration happens in this way: I rate my frustration, think about some line I heard to describe _s (They’re all jealous—they’re still jealous of people they knew in 4th grade), think Sure that applies and I’m (being) jealous, then distract myself from the frustration by thinking about the joy in finding a cheese that I can actually eat without getting funky faced like the Doestoyevsky reader.

[It is well past 3 in the morning and several disappointments in succession tickers across the brain. It’d make a good title for something and it’d make a good title for my reality.] When I took the 6 home on Friday evening, someone who I’d seen on the train before got on 3 stops after I did. The first time I saw her, she also got on 3 stops after I did. Fortunately I didn’t have to sit through the ride watching her apply make-up because it was the return ride. She had the same bag as she did the first time. One of those oversized not-quite-a-Gavriels that are equally as irresponsible as what they’re not quite in that they’re the size of a small child and take up far too much space on the train. (Why am I writing about this?) While she sat across from me at nearly the same distance as she did the first time, some dope not quite our (the girl and my) age stood between us, chatting with a friend of his. He described someone as an extra in his life—some woman with green hair who, if he leaves his house at just past 8, he’ll run into on the platform. I thought his having called her an extra was selfish, and sort of despised the Millenniana of his phraseology. In his description of the Armory to the friend, he used the word fucking five times. He upsoke. He tried to sell the friend on some hip new bar in The Hood. He tried to sell the friend on It’s only $243 for a ticket happenings around town. When I read through Wikipedia’s Millennials > Date and age range defining, I feel like an Ageist, and because my brain is sort of asleep, read to rhyme with Atheist, and agree with everyone who has a cut-off date on or before 1998 and think GenX is fair enough of by way of a name for those of us prior (who may not identify with Millenniana, more like Millenni-ismo). I don’t know where I wanted to take this, but selfish (above) was the wrong word for the millennial (I meant narcissistic) and the Armory is more than (what he described as) a fucking sweet theater and I sort of liked running into the stranger a second time because it reinforced routine.

Architecture without architects and love without lovers or lovers without love or some shit like that. When I started this I told myself I would not use any expletives but I can’t keep a promise, just like him. I keep hearing _ call him a—no, reading Berger and his Courage, for instance, is a quality that all admire. The dispossessed know very well that under certain circumstances everyone is capable of being a coward. in that Rendezvous book.¹ That and Love, my mother had the habit of saying, is the only thing that counts in this world. Real love, she would add, to avoid any fictitious misunderstanding. But apart from that simple adjective, she never added anything more.

He sat on his sofa in his south facing living room at the end of the first-½ floor of his Harlem brownstone and told me that I need to figure out what I want and that You need to figure out how to make money on YOUR work (so that it (the money and the work) stays YOURS) and in the back of my head I thought money means different things to different people and I like my job (and don’t mind helping out for now) and I hope to Whomever that _ never tells me what you’re trying to tell me right now and Whomever, he’s trying to care but his form of expressing care is so comfortable for him and not the recipient. Which all led to friends are people who will stand up for you which led to friends are people who will tolerate everything about you. Borrowed light throughout and a steel staircase throughout. Resale value to the max and a shower in the powder room beneath the stairs facing the kitchen that, even after #million, needs to be renovated (read prefab-craftmanshipped¹) to include a Subzero undercounter. I imagined growing plants in his 2nd floor south facing office. I imagined ripping the new of the building apart and turning a floor and a ½ into a library. I imagined getting through all this shit that I may be using 9 to 5 architecture to get over and in that imagination I was (what people describe as) happy and shit was all what I needed.

I really screwed myself over by going to the Kengo Kuma lecture at Cooper tonight (but I can’t write about why that is until I figure out how I’m using this blog). I a) was fascinated at how えと— translates to English, b) wondered how many people in attendance have seen his buildings IRL, c) wondered what Kenneth Frampton (mistakenly typed Grampton just then) thinks of Kuma’s new projects, d) wondered if I could ever work for Kuma (no, I can’t generate sick renderings (but I could probably generate sick shit to render)), e) was ambivalent about the work I was seeing on-screen, on-screen, on-screen, save the Hiroshige building and the building I’ve spent time in and the clear teahouse suspended from a helium balloon, and the Marche’s thatched façade, f) felt pretty bad about the latter, g) thought that, sure, it’s (remained) Critical Regionalism, h) wondered what L thinks about the Hangzhou because he’s there with his non-architect lover teaching kids who knows what, i) thought that sure, it’s Regionalism, but is it Critical (enough?), j) wondered what Kuma’s yearly University of Tokyo lab budget is in an oversized pie-chart comparing it to other UT labs, k) cried as he right arrow, right arrowed, right arrowed past the building—K is a good place to stop. Kuma made the room laugh a few times (the Starbucks owner was baffled that he has to keep extending the construction deadline, had the wall been constructed out of concrete the motorist would have died, the Portland stone wall’s fabrication is a secret), but not as much as Tadao Ando did. Kuma projected one sketch (rocks). Kuma is my mother’s age and is quite tall. Kuma pronounces his ts well and this post isn’t going quite how I wanted it to, but I think I’m using this blog to write about architecture in a roundabout way, and what, if anything, it has to do with love ((or it is the other way around?) using only the Title line because this theme isn’t working how I want it to).