what is this -- the vestiges of a previous discipline plaguing me? I need to stop asking why, why why why why, because the meat of it is in the how, the flesh of the project, the solidity of a core, the nectar, in the how. but instead I'm looking at this like a paper, art-historical processes continuing in here; what's my thesis, and what is this part of the building saying, and why, and is it coherent, and consistent, and if not, why? why not?
instead the building needs to be more like a body, or a photograph, just cherished, something to be analyzed than being a process of analysis itself. I need to know this, and to divorce myself from the anxieties of a form-discovering processes bound on all edges by constraints, like gulliver pinned down by the lilliputians. it's a photograph, a body, to be perceived with a punctum, with the spark of desire, of celebratory experience-within-the-present. I keep on saying to myself: I don't have a building; I've got a million conceptual sketches. what does that even mean?
so I'll whip myself into a panic-induced fervor, and at some moment I'll figure out what I need to do, and then will ensue forty-eight hours of a sleepless burning desire, inside which I'll find a moment of grace; pure brennschluss, nothing but momentum and movement. and then I'll present, blink a little, then wander around grids of light downtown, pass by christmas trees, pretend that they're forests, listen to the noise of the city.