berr0170

it is November and yet the evening's fog speaks of a chilly dawn in spring. it is that kind of fog that all at once remains cool while bathing one in the warmth of a well-worn wool blanket. it is all that i can do not to simply run from this repressing room out the door and loose myself in a smoky embrace of this evening’s transformation. it is this endeavor of mine, this scholastic architecture business, that is simultaneously urging exploration and confining me indoors and viciously constraining my day. it is after all indoors where it is suitable to write of observations when that which moves me is waiting hopelessly for me - as i have yet to diagram the spatial complexity of a stairwell, yet to read endlessly of other, more important opinions of what and what is not moving of the natural environment, yet to write paper after paper about ancient structures and their conventionally agreed upon greatness. i am expected to create narrations of how a particular Roman dome evokes a feeling of godly creation when i have never once experienced even setting my foot in the entire continent of Europe – all while this godly greatness can be seen out my window. i have to wrestle with the administration, a great work of erratic politics, of minute paperwork details that in reality won’t concern this billion-dollar enterprise of a university when the issue at hand is my future career and monumental debt. a future career that regardless of eight years of scholastic training i will arrive to inevitably feeling completely ill prepared for. no, i will jump through the hoops set before me, pay dearly for them and learn about great architecture by reading of it.

“Every form has its own meaning. Every man creates his meaning and form and goal. Why is it so important – what others have done? Why does it become sacred by the mere fact of not being your own? Why is anyone and everyone right – so long as it’s not yourself? Why does the number of those others take the place of truth?�
- Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

Posted by Bryan Berry at 2:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

neither of us wants to leave despite the cold, the air is crisp and the night sky has a fantastic clarity this time of winter; the stars seem nearer. the streets are mostly deserted with only one or two cars passing by. we have been standing here for a time that neither of us could describe; time that has strayed into a loop. the city is entirely removed from the space that we now occupy – a bubble only defined by the dimmed light of a nearby street lamp and cycling traffic light. it is the traffic light that gives the only definition of passing time, a reminder that even now this night, time cannot be stopped. time as a human invention – a framework of description - is being measured by the passing of colored lights, a loop that has no function in the absence of traffic but to reference time into particular subdivisions that make up one of the only globally agreed upon measurement systems. why should time be divided into base 60 intervals and the second into tenths? what is the value of a second in this new world of physics that depends upon mass? is it yet another desperate plea to measure the worth of our knowledge in attempting to describe our surroundings in space? - a phenomenon of human invention to feel less lonely in such a vast space.

Posted by Bryan Berry at 2:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

the smell of surrounding pines appears heightened in the crisp mountain air, mountains that exude an energy present only in such mass; invisible in the night though easily felt. there is a slight snowfall exerting a meek endeavor to further cover the hidden landscape – it does this constantly here as roads become caverns in a snow flooded plain. it is beautiful, powerful and intimidating all at once; what could be buried under all of this snow? the lanterns follow along with the road holding tightly around the curves trying not to be swallowed into the darkness, lead us through the night. my family travels here almost every year, we rest inside after having grumbled and maneuvered logs into the fireplace set ablaze. it isn’t necessary though as we had been sitting for hours along the way – a sense of past arduous travel has implanted itself firmly into our modern thought. we laugh together even as we understand the mystery of the food cans, bags of chips, yogurt containers and knock-off brands of Tupperware® burst with the pressures that we brought along with us – evidence of that long climb that still weighs upon us. we read after having settled down and before going to bed; my father always some kind of wartime novel featuring a bold blood red Nazi enigma as book art or referencing the US/Soviet conflicts of the Cold War - something rich with history - my sister and i having never succeeded in shaking off these absences have piles of textbooks read through the years as a timeline of our lives – elementary, middle school, high school the more recently collegiate material - to get through while my mother absorbs the rarity of the complete family together. we will sleep after having the traditional snack of kettle cooked popcorn and awake to a brilliant blue and spectacularly pure white horizon jagged along the mountaintops.

Posted by Bryan Berry at 7:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)