Embraced a verdant New England

At 2:00 this afternoon we made a decisive move that changed our perceptions of the City forever - we decided to cross the bridge and tread upon a shore that we are so close by and so distant from at the same time. The lunch itself was so-so but as we took a left turn at N Street we found an exciting buzz and murmur of a street crowd that we have yearned for. As we strolled down the street (as an attempt to escape from the shadow of a cloud that has been constantly hovering above our heads in Village C) we hopped in and out of every happy niche on two sides.

Perhaps a wonderful day like this should, in lieu of being contaminated by my own writing, be enriched by further imaginations?

processing? processing what?

Two weeks have quietly passed since the 'd-day'. To my relief, the stress has not quite acted on me yet - having run all the errands and done all the chores concerning my semester leave I find myself watching each second passes by purposelessly (with the aid of re-re-re-runs on my cableless TV), which feels great.

But the relaxed mode did not last long. I did not hesitate at all to, finally, dwell into processing - a programming environment that I refrained from touching last semester. To a great extent I consider my ignorance in programming environments a shame - was it a good thing that I got around Mark's studio without scripting a single line? Anyhow, my first attempt was proved unproductive - mostly due to the fact that my TV is on during the whole time while I was reading about the basic syntaxes of processing. But with my currentl level of adrenalin I think it is impressive enough that I could gather my will to at least get started.

For the same reason, my mind was wandering in outer space yesterday for my kids' final review. I first came late for the preparation of the room, swanned off multiple times during Bill's clown show and constantly gazed at the air particles (and the trajectory of his saliva droplets) whenever he spoke. Lame as it may sound but I blamed my 'depraved indifference' towards the organization of the review on our different views on architecture. At least subconsciously I wanted to show how much disrespect I have for him. A sensitive gay man of his age, of course, did not miss my somewhat blatant display of rebellion. I was waiting to see when that bubble of 'puritan/ anglo-saxon impartiality' would be engulfed by pure anger, which, to my surprise, did not emerge (though came pretty close). The price of entertaining myself by being a prick is, of course, a decent reference letter. Well, why should I care?

Perhaps I would care had he not invited that silly eunuch to my crit room. His apparent lack of self-confidence among his professional peers clearly fueled an 'inspiring' speech for the first year kids. Unfortunately however, his monologue did not translate into love and respect - at least from my point of view, since the more he spoke, the more I felt the urge to poke at him. I was even a little concerned when yung-ho came in - what an embarassment, to have invited a critic of that quality.

I do notice that whenever I carry that hubris around with me something bad is destined to happen. I have not a single reason to bring up the miracle of science episode again - what more could I say? karma turned around and bite me.

all these blend description of how a day passed by like water running down a stream... give me another day - perhaps my diary will be enriched by a few images of some processing stuff of which I would be proud?

apocalypse, Chris Marker and my craving for a beach barbeque

it's been a long time since I last posted something here. Studio has gone a long long way from mid term to final. But my life and experience did not accelerate accordingly - they are just remarkably slow in proceeding forward.

London London! After counting down for studio final it is time for a London countdown. I get there on the 22nd June and start working in the lonely city on the 3rd July. the city's 'high Modern' flavor notwithstanding, it is actually quite archaic - its language (the persistent use of the word 'surname', as opposed to last name, often sends a chill up my spine), food (either indian or shepherd pies. Food for barbarians) and metabolism (which is, to me, noted for that strange, unique sense of viscosity) could easily put me into a deep, contemplative melancholy. Afterall, it is a city of black trenchcoats and black umbrellas. But as usual, I will be forced to anticipate, enthusiastically, yet another great adventure and sweep all my unnecessary apprehensions aside. But since when did Cambridge feel so much like a safe haven to me?

I cannot help but to think that the semester is approaching an apocalyptic stage again. Perhaps not so much for the school itself - afterall, it is a system that flourishes upon annual regeneration. For me, however, it feels like everything has to be razed down to ground zero - an apartment that I finally got myself acquainted to, a breathtaking view that delivers the 'sublime' at my disposal, a friendly neighborhood... all these memories, along with my nomad gears, will be swept into a 5x7 cell and left ferment for 6 months in a building that seems infinite . Until then I will harness my sentiments onto something/someone/somewhere else.

To construct a Self that I am not in order to shelter myself - that is my ultimate architectural aspiration. Want to see my latest construction/ fabrication?

2 weeks in Hong Kong, I hope, will serve well as a buffer between two intense experiences. My latest discovery on my travel agenda informs me that I will not be able to attend John's wedding - what a shame. It could very well evolve into the worst, and thus the most entertaining, wedding of the 21st century. What strikes me is not only the level of organization/disorganization which is, as far as I know, literally unheard of, but also the cast that will participate in this act of sheer baffoonery: a 42 year-old virgin who refuses to grow up is marrying a 41 year-old accountant who has probably grown up too much. To me it sounds very much like a 17 year-old marrying a 61 year-old, or a monkey trying on a gorilla's suit.

And I pray to god that no one is reading this.

Should I consider myself lucky, that I already have a long list of visitors in London well before the trip actually starts? Steph's arrival will be quite exciting but I am a little concerned that the responsibility of figuring out the 'logistics' would fall upon me. For no fewer than 20 times I have helped people to join with each other but this will be my first time helping them to avoid each other. This sense of contrived poignancy hurts my head often. And Sophia, my fellow nomad, will be passing by as well. I am particularly intrigued by the possible visit of Hannah - afterall we have only briefly exchanged a few words in Kyoto. Of course, as the cliche goes, 'in the age of internet....' yet still, how often does that happen anyway?

For no apparent reason whatsoever I have been craving for Chris Marker's Sans Soleil lately. Checked on Amazon and lo and behold, there it is. A compilation of Le Jetee and Sans Soleil - a perfect antidote to my curious ailment. But the antidote comes in expensive - $60.30, or the equivalent of 4 decent meals at a restaurant. Unfortunately the calculation does not go that way, not quite. Those 4 meals mean a whole life to me, particularly in the times of apocalypse when everything is slipping through my hands like a full handful of sand.

Speaking of sand, I wonder if I could somehow organize a beach barbeque with a few friends of mine. Too bad I am in this hell profession, in which no one, not even one, has time to prepare a decent piece of steak for barbeque. Well, does anyone still do that? it is such an 80s thing. I recall Uncle Pat's greasy right hand holding a chicken wing and his greasy left hand holding a barbeque skewer. Everything was then wrapped in a black and white silk polo shirt, a pair of grey suit pants, a pair of cheap Spanish leather shoes (with a tiny copper plate stitched on the right side, and a pair of rubber soles that looks very much misplaced), a fake Rolex and tied together by a goldlion leather belt. Speaking of contrived poignancy one must not leave out the vivid memories of the 80s.