Somehow, my diary entries have been kinda sucky lately. Not that they're not entertaining, of course; I know damn well that I'm entertaining. But they've lacked joie-de-vivre.
I'm afraid it's my neurasthenia. [sniff!] I can't control it. I hear the only possible cure modern science can put forth is being pioneered by a doctor in Zurich who, for an enormous fee, massages one's prostate with a miraculous bakelite implement that runs on real electricity! All this, in the crisp comfort of his lakeside sanatorium. I can practically hear the melodious blart of alp-horns.
Who was telling me about mid-XXe lobotomies, during which the patients were asked to recite the alphabet until they no longer could, at which point the surgery was considered a success? I wish they hadn't said that. I can take a lot of nastiness from human history, but that one sits down rather hard. Although a film scenario presents itself: a brilliant professor of Oriental Languages, suspected Red, alcoholic, possible bisexual (that'll work nicely into some other scenes I already have worked out!), is going mad (for whatever reason you like). He's in the operating theater, with his head sliced open, and they ask him to recite the alphabet. "Whose alphabet?", he sniffs, archly.
Archly ... archly. Oh, yes. I was going to tell you about architectural destruction and what it does for epoch-making. The WTC, of course, which was what brought the thought on. But also Old St. Peter's. The Berlin Wall. The walls of Constantinople. But, prominently, not Hagia Sophia. She still stands, to the honor of her conquerors no less than her builders. How cool am I? I've been there. Closest thing I've had to a real religious experience in six years (during which time I had also lost my virginity and met Emma Kirkby, mind you). I nearly wet myself. Even though I'm no longer dreaming of becoming an architect, (although, who knows? It's the closest I've had to a ... uh, ... concrete aspiration in my life) I'm still convinced that the built environment is the greatest of The Arts -- well, that whole thing about being an interface between human art and life. By which ("the built environment") I mean architecture, industrial design, gardening, and urban planning. Geez, if I think it's important, maybe I should do something about it.
There was a good essay about Utopias I was reading the other day -- now, where was it? Dear me, I am getting confused in my old age -- almost 24. Here we are. On Momus's web site. See what you think. [btw: Jeepers, I love Hindemith.] And the main disillusionment that lead to my forswearing architecture was twofold: 1o., that architects' dreams become the nightmares of real people (as Nick intimates). 2o., that I would probably be sitting in a well-lighted basement right now (or perhaps, more realistically, at ten tomorrow morning) sketching out in detail the angle at which a piece of rubber wainscotting should hit the terazzo floor of a ghastly and still mercifully-hypothetical office building. I would be staring at a pastel Frank Lloyd Wright poster. There would be a potted palm at my right. Something about it would have the plodding carefulness of people who spend their lives designing. It would be, I admit, a prettier office than any other in which I could hope to work. And Elysium would be that much closer, and the gates between me and my love would be so much more finely chased in silver. Fuck it. If I'm going to have a boring, drudge job, at least let it be in something I'm not technically interested in, right? That's what I say. Isn't it?
So my next order of business is to find myself a job I like. That should be easy: I'm a fairly chill, popular guy without overpoweringly strong predilections or a blisteringly sour attitude -- whatever have I said to indicate the contrary? -- who makes a lovely first impression and gets everything I might want. Right? When the Scheidt hits the music stand, I shall probably end up with a perfectly good job with perfectly good politics, and everything will be lovely and sufficient and I might even stop griping.
Oh, dear. It is past my bedtime, isn't it?
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