Why I Hate Ecotect

Sometimes I dream mythology

You were in one of my dreams last night, and one of my New Year’s resolutions was to write down my interesting dreams, so I did.

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I was in the Savannah, Africa and all around me were animals. Buffalo, zebra, lions, rhinos, ostriches, all moving in the same direction, as if on one big multi-species migration. Seemingly oblivious too each other. I walked with the flow until we came upon a large lake. Blue as the sky. A giraffe walked gracefully over, and on it’s back there you were, sitting cross-legged behind the nape of it’s neck (do giraffes even have napes?). The giraffe stood legs apart and lowered its head to the water too drink, and as it did so you slid down it’s neck to the ground.

We walked in silence until nightfall. Lit a fire. Sat in it’s warmth, talking, the animals keeping a wary distance.

The following morning we came across a mountain range, and in a crook facing the planes stood a castle. Gothic and turreted, and pointy in places, as all good fairy-tale castles should be. As we climbed the hill and the animals melted away into the forest, so that by the time we’d reached the castle we were entirely alone.

The drawbridge was down, deserted. The whole castle was empty. Inside was gloomy and stale. We moved from room to room looking for signs of life. Nothing except cobwebs and cold stone.

We searched the castle, until we came the tallest of the towers. At the top of a spiral staircase we found a bedroom. Richly adorned, but so old that the parchments on the table crumbed to dust at a single touch. The focus of the room was a giant bed of carved black wood, and in the bed a person. No, a skeleton. Still wrapped in his robes of office and wearing his crown, the King sat in bed, grinning as if he’d only just got the joke.

I follow you out onto a small balcony that looks out over the Savannah, towards the morning sun. You turn too me smiling. You kiss me, once, on the cheek. You are radiant. You spread your wings, and I’d have sworn you didn’t have wings a moment ago. Your still smiling and then in just one beat you are high above my head. And then you are flying with purpose, a steady beat, heading towards the sun. I strain my eyes until your just a smudge in the brightest part of the sky, and I have too look away.

A Return To Writing

I never really stopped. It’s just that for the last few years, the things that I wanted too write about weren’t things that I felt I could to share here. Instead I took to writing in the old fashioned pen and ink fashion (which is just as messy as I remembered from primary school), in two black squarish books, now scuffed with misuse, that recount the periods surrounding my grandfathers death and that of my first true love. But now, with both safely in the past I feel an urge not to stop writing. I am all too aware that I have nothing ‘real’ to say and full expect this to be one of those blogs that serves no external purpose. But even if all this is is just an erratic diary, then that’s enough for me. Like a pet monster that nags to be fed.

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On the street running along the rear of the Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao

A Comment

“Im a philosophical hobbyist, do this just for kicks and giggles but seriously nice work on the anti kitsch, I love when people identify things its good beans … To go calmly into the dark is to forget the power of the candle said confused gus

what is school teaching about true good endure these days? yeah thats my question smarty pants really im curious though, is sophism more identifiable than rightousness in self reflection? for that matter am I only trying to shine a light on something I have no idea or concept of or do we all already understand the universe but forget certain parts? TRUTH GOODNESS and ENDURANCE thats how the artistry survives, keep it up and soon I will invent a medal for people like you who nail coffins of predispositional mummys, the tomb of proof is beauty in art, the questions all outweigh the real truths, over englishification of something so very very simple equals people going crazy to figure things out when they only need to step down their two feet at once thats all they need now draw it and email me it and I will have a resounding feeling of hope that I am accurate and goodness will prevail ! truth comes cheap always in exchange for favor for favor, they say social credit is the last thing keeping us away from them too dont forget to put that into your picture there”

This is a comment left by a person called Cory at 5:30 on the 12th of March. Originally posted on the About Me page.

I’m not sure what to make of it. It’s complimentary, I think. (In all honesty, I can’t make sense of quite a lot of it). I hadn’t considered the possibility that people might actually read this stuff, or that they might read it in semi-seriousness. So I want to add this disclaimer: Please, don’t believe anything you read here. It’s just random musings on what I’m thinking at one point in time, mainly composed in a sleep deprived, hyperactive, or UHU fume stupor and has the type of intellectual rigour that would make a tabeloid journalist proud.

In response to Cory’s question about truth goodness and endurance (if I understand it correctly): We’ve yet to be taught any theory beyond the very basics at the Uni: colour theory, primary objects and systems of proportion. Metaphysics within architecture is so far beyond the horizon that we could quite possibly never have to think about it. At the moment the drive is to prod us towards creating Architecture (pronounced with a capital A).

Personally, I’m cynical about the idea of ‘true’ architecture (or an art), because that suggests that there should be one unified style of architecture, devoid of originality. Not that originality in itself is worth a hat.

Cluedo

(written on the return train journey, a few weeks ago)

First, I should explain that (when I go home) I live in the attic, well out of the path of drunken wanderers. At some point during last nights partying, between the hours of 7 in the evening and midnight, someone came in to my room and scrawled this message on my desk in permanent marker.

Which is rather sweet. Certainly better than a crummy Valentines card. If only I had any idea about who could have written this. So far the identity of the mystery scribbler seems to be remaining stubbornly secretive. The only possible course of head is to locate the culprit through a process of elimination. So far I have 4 out of the 39 people at the party, who probably definitely didn’t do it; if they’re telling the truth.

Investigations will continue.

Snowdon

A group of us went up the Crib Goch ridge

Heading straight ahead. Not exactly a path.

Once we’d got up that first scramble we could see all the way along the ridge.

The peak tinged with the solar flaring is Snowdon itself.

There was fog for a while.

Looking back along the ridge with a bit of snow on the ground.

The peak of Snowdon from the same vantage point.

From the high ridge the views out across the cloud were glorious.

After reaching the top the time was getting late and we headed down the Miners path, down past the lakes.

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Then today we had a lazy climbing day above Porthmadoc.

One of the climbs lead up from the white tree. It was a good climb except that the rock on that particular section tends to come off in brick sized chunks, so you had to be careful what you were trusting your weight too.

Project Wrap Up

Garden Of Light project. 1:50 model of the pavilion. Carved out of a single block of plaster. Friendly feedback.

50% of the design unit’s mark, or 1/8th of a years work.