An Assortment of Not-Rights

i don’t know what to say as we’re sitting on the train together and i think i said something like: i loved when we used to have snow days. i think i was 6, and the snow was taller than me even. my dad would carry me so i could even see above the pile. do you remember those days? and you tell me, of course, it  used to snow so hard in minnesota. we’d make it an entire family event just shoveling the driveway. you want to know something weird? i met you last year, so i don’t think i’ll ever see that side of you. i responded, what side? and you tell me the side of me that’s making snow angels and breaking icicles off the car bumper.  i mean, do you really think it’ll snow again? 

i suppose that’s the purpose of it all now but how am i expected to produce, put out quality content, when i just feel the impending lack of autonomy pushing on me. feels exactly like that scene in a new hope when the group gets stuck inside the garbage compactor. like really does it matter what i’m designing when i’m sweating through my shirt in the middle of november? doesn’t this all seem performative to anyone, the architecture, the vernacular materials conundrum? swinging back and forth behind the curtains between how to make my design better, new iterations of higher ceilings and better ventilation when the pendulum was never even on stage.

and of course when the train stops for 15 minutes in the middle of nowhere i feel a sense of gratification – told you it was best we left 30 minutes early. must be best we plan for all this; feels so stupid cutting my hardboard tempered panel when everything outside fights against the sole reason i’m cutting this hardboard tempered panel. is it even possible to be socially conscious, responsible, trying to make change when i’m not even in charge? but okay prof, go ahead and email me about the deadline to this uber sustainable housing project just as i’m standing on my chair closing all my windows, airing out the smoke from my room. just my luck i left the windows ajar for a cool breeze while i sleep and i’m gifted with the smog of the blazing wildfires 50 miles northwest expanding throughout my entire room seeping into the halls and into my lungs. i’m wheezing it out as i’m emailing back in acquiescence re:deadline i’ll have it in by tonight. So yeah. Isn’t this awfully ironic?