I admit this entry is written out of instinctual procrastination panic, but still. I'm dissatisfied with models as a mode of diagramming. I'm convinced certain things like circulation, grid relationships, and site proportion are best left to the drafting board. Which makes what I'm doing (or not doing) busywork. And whining about it online will totally help me finish.
Our final project of the semester is being kept a secret--they're clearly trying to force us to think in purely abstract terms--but the rumor has leaked that it's some kind of exhibition space. Some people are already designing Postmodern museums. Mice and men, you know. I'm innocently playing along, ostensibly because I'm such a good student but really because I'm embarrassingly uncreative. That's where inspiration from analysis comes in, thank God.
Mid-term studio evaluations came out. I doing far worse than last semester. I blame the lack of drawing (I've drafted once all semester) and emphasis on craft. And my time-consuming general education courses, which are eating my life (it probably tasted like candle wax, or maybe a stale custard). Maybe this is the rest of schooling: I suppose I can't expect that first year, first semester rush of knowledge to sustain itself. Maybe that's why I keep turning my interests elsewhere. I've diagnosed myself with academic ADD.
We pick Fall 2006 classes soon. Remember when I whined about the lack of a language requirement? It turns out the time slot is open. I'm debating between Latin and French. Or Spanish. Or maybe an in-college elective called "Literature and the Urban Experience", which will mean reading (yay) and getting that pesky diversity requirement out of the way (also yay). The most "urban" piece of literature I can think of is Joyce's Dubliners, adding to the academic allure of the course. Something tells me, however, that if I pass this chance to take Latin I'll never forgive myself.
Must keep babbling. Anyone read Nancy Levinson's blog ? I think it's quite good. But what do I know? The glares of the passing fifth years remind me of my place.