'We each play the protagonist in our own self-written melodrama.'
-Errol Morris

"
I find I have this predisposition towards doing things that are rather dark. Lots of darkness building to little pirouettes of joy. I don't know why.


“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”
-Mr. Spock


From an artistic standpoint, I find it a more compelling point of view to remove myself from politics. Like looking at subdivisions from the window of an airplane, you can stand above loathing for wealthy subjugators, above pity for the marginalized, and simply be appreciative to be watching the macro-organism grow from 30000 ft. There is something happening in there; something beautiful and intangible blossoming between the cracks. It doesn't make sense, and its out of control, but if we are really honest with ourselves, hasn't it always been?


I like to think I am a servant of life. I pour in my dreams, manifest what I am able, and in return I am given this unending cascade of light and color and friends and pain and music.


I've been searching for some time now for the answer to a question. It seems to me to be the most fundamental of all questions, yet frustratingly no one I've probed, no text I've read, has begun to provide a satisfying answer, or even a starting path on which to find it.


Why is it that every time I wake, every time I reopen my eyes, I find myself still me? What about this magical arrangement of molecules, this mush in my scull, could be so distinct from every other combination of energies everywhere else in the universe that could force life to look out through the front of my face? What could be so qualitatively different about this piece of meat that could tether consciousness to limbs? Why do I never suddenly find myself to be another person entirely? Or a nudibranch? Or a rock? Or nebulized hydrogen? Why doesn't consciousness simply leak out and flow from fingertips and into everything else?


Recently, Ive been considering the possibility that it does. Life is not a one-point perspective. When I drive my car, I become my car. When I close my eyes and move my fingers about the surface of a stone, my soul fills the space around it, pervades its pits and its hardness; its weight draws me into its mass. When I look across stars reflected in the ripples of the bay with my hand upon that of my girlfriends, we become the singular experience of that moment. That is the substance of life, the nature and purpose of existence.


I don't yet know what that means, architecturally. It helps me though to gain valuable objectivity. I become free. I see no reason why architecture must be this or must be that. It may be whatever I find myself compelled to make it. Or perhaps, whatever I may be capable of manifesting within those who share it.
"

at which point I became terribly miserable [for personal reasons] and publicly recanted..