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Collaging signs of city-dwelling and coordinating an Office of Exhibition in Berkeley, CA.
City-based design-build opportunities are often found near the garden.
From architect to filmmaker, prospects from traveling the design-build landscape follow.
A documentary short looks at two small scale design-builders in the city (pop & son), and the building of a rural shelter employing on-site materials.
Collaging signs of city-dwelling and coordinating an Office of Exhibition in Berkeley, CA.
City-based design-build opportunities are often found near the garden.
From architect to filmmaker, prospects from traveling the design-build landscape follow.
A documentary short looks at two small scale design-builders in the city (pop & son), and the building of a rural shelter employing on-site materials.
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1 comment:
"here there is no water, only rock, rock and no water and the [red] road..."
V. What the Thunder Said
After the torchlight red on sweaty faces/ After the frosty silence in the gardens/After the agony in stony places/The shouting and the crying/Prison and palace and reverberation/Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience
Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains/ Which are mountains of rock without water/ If there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think/ Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand/ If there were only water amongst the rock/Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit/Here one can neither stand not lie nor sit/ There is not even silence in the mountains/ But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains/But red sullen faces sneer and snarl/ From doors of mudcracked houses
If there were water/
And no rock/ If there were rock
And also water/And water/A spring
A pool among the rock/If there were the sound of water only/ Not the cicada/And dry grass singing
But sound of water over a rock
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees/Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop/ But there is no water
Who is the third who walks always beside you?/When I count, there are only you and I together/ But when I look ahead up the white road/There is always another one walking beside you/Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded/I do not know whether a man or a woman
- But who is that on the other side of you?/What is that sound high in the air/ Murmur of maternal lamentation/ Who are those hooded hordes swarming/Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed by the flat horizon only
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air/Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London/Unreal
A woman drew her long black hair out tight/And fiddled whisper music on those strings/And bats with baby faces in the violet light/Whistled, and beat their wings/And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours/And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
In this decayed hole among the mountains/In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing/Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home./It has no windows, and the door swings,/Dry bones can harm no one./Only a cock stood on the rooftree/Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust/Bringing rain...
Datta: what have we given?/
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender/Which an age of prudence can never retract/By this, and this only, we have existed/Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider/Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor/In our empty rooms
DA
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only/We think of the key, each in his prison/thinking of the key, each confirms a prison/Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
DA
Damyata: The boat responded/Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded/Gaily, when invited, beating obedient/To controlling hands
I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me/Shall I at least set my lands in order?
...London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down...
T.S. Eloit. From 'The Wasteland'
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