Nothing is more clear to me than the idea that architecture heals. Just as forms meet and melt together, so does mankind when they congregate into the spaces we design and build. It is the sole reason for building any space. Yes one can argue that one can build various other buildings for economic and marketable reasons, but to me this is too hollow for us t benefit from as a species. We can no longer afford to waste resources and space on half-loved arenas for wealth. Too long has our world kept building in an effort to give people paychecks instead of a means to escape our daily troubles. Who else benefits from those spaces designed to trap instead of heal? Technology and machines are the only parties that benefit from our own spacial suicide.
When we return home from the office (one such building type that is often used in spacial-gluttony) the space becomes void, empty and cold. But that is because humans have no need to use that space after a certain hour. So we convince ourselves that ghost roam free in the space we used to work in, feeding our imaginations honoring our spiritual pasts. Instead technology is often still residing in the old halls of economic passions. It is so important to understand that aspect, because as current AI technologies advance, along with our reliance on using computers to govern daily tasks, soon we will be left with the idea that computers, technology, and machines will retain their own self-awareness. That awareness is lacking in our species as a trait, that we can forget that our own brothers and sisters were born of the same flesh and we still choose to deny them the same benefits as us. Or we look down upon peoples of different faiths, banners, flags, and cities. If we cannot love ourselves, can we exist to peacefully coexist with our creations? Because we cannot live with the tech we use on a daily basis, we have no right to exist on this earth. We are but a plague now once we teach our children more spacial hate and waste that will bring us to the brink of social failure.
Certain machines post ways to mess with thought,
an incorruptible passage of time and sequence.
And within the resulting void, stems ideas,
on how to fix, how to feel, how to purge.
The machines teach us long lessons on humanity,
lessons we can never teach ourselves;
and that our resulting hollow-pride
shows us how cruel nature is.
Only fragmented space augmented by machines,
can bridge the gap we long lost,
during our quest to appease the nature realm we earn to join.
Inspiration in curves,
Guiding ourselves off the 90 degree path.
I once held frantically to hope that fabrics,
Given age and wisdom,
Could help soothe wounds made from words.
Or that pens once held the mightiest honor.
But what was once pure, gave way to pitfalls.
Deep caverns of pain with walls lined with pessimism.
Sucks to learn that you cannot make a ladder
With the words “there is nothing you can do”.
Yet the mind moves forward to create lines that bridge when others have broken.
Colors shape from voids and life springs from death.
Why do we still follow old ways?
How I longed to envision living pipes
as flesh-singed objects
connect to the machines we tried to govern.
Our daily lines reduced to methods and codes.
Far from mankind,
Far from heavens created
by man’s breath.
Buildings ceasing to exist as intended,
to only stop raining.
Human voids shift.
And frustrations rise.
Our machines put strain on ample minds;
Curated functions and life algorithms.
We thirst no longer for dreams but realities.
What happens to a physical dream when it dies?
As lines are drawn to carve,
my lines work to stitch, to cleanse dirt and perfection away.
Perfect worlds exist only in our minds.
Once they hit paper,
they cease to function
as we intend them.
And the sites stay true
to the ideas we recorded into them
repetitive rhythms of opposite
ideas, function, challenges and
Wood - Stone
Steel - water
Dirt - wind
opportunities to break and release
and return to the dust.
We built, as a perfect idea
of the records of our time
till we age and let each
fragment melt away to
the next generation to
wonder and spit on;
forgetting all that we learned.
The containers on spring and prince-
filled coffers of men wishing to be dead.
Containers as coffins of wealth
Between yellow faces,
masked by years of gentrification.
Black ladders dance across red, pierced with age,
paying homage to lives lost;
The pain of 1897.
And As stationary we wish our buildigns to be,
we remain faithful to the moveable streets.
The blacktop and cobble,
our ancient mothers, brothers, sisters
once called a political arena;
theater for desire, riots and fire engine gangs.
Stuck in tradition as the city
of no sleep turns to no past, no ghost, no retrace.
Flashforward; a skill lacking
to those of Ohio skin
fair blondes do the dance of dark dirts
and no accent can keep them away.
“we are a valued commodity.” he said
while what quick wit, left desired, responded;
“Hollywood is fucked without our accents.”