futurebird's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- modernism I stood on the roof of the building straining to see over the edge of the enormous ornament that sits above the entrance on 5th avenue. Seen from the back, the imposing stone loops look especially stupid. I like modern architecture. I have a special fondness for buildings that other people hate. Don�t give me aging wood and rows of disorderly bricks: give me glass and rusting steel! Give me aluminium siding and coloured plastic panels baking towards a slow paleness in the summer sun. Like modern buildings, I sometimes feel unloved. Misunderstood. Postmodern architecture makes me want to cry. What good is a scroll pediment atop a skyscraper? Can anyone for a moment believe that it humanises the thing, that it humanises us? Someone must-- but I would rather embrace the cold hard edges that box in modern life. M is like me in that respect. I showed him a postcard of my favourite unloved building. �I like this, but I don�t know why.� Some people understand. That�s a gift. Suddenly, over my head a flock of crows, beating in circles, a ball of black wings came cawing at me. I watch the wings unfold and I caw back. This makes the crows caw even more. I love crows. I bet they wonder why I can�t fly. I can though, just not yet. But, soon I see what the beasties are up to. They are harassing a big hawk with a spotted chest. She ducks to evade them but they keep coming on. The crows hate the hawk. I wonder why. Some ancient injury? I want to write a story about how the hawk once betrayed the crows and now they always chases her, reenacting some battle from the dead age of parables. I sip the cigarette and look at the sky, a shade of grey that M says he likes for some reason. I like it too. Love is a terrible thing. He�ll be gone to Kentucky to teach mathematics to people who don't care about numbers before I know it. I don�t believe in long distance relationships. I�m not like the crows I can�t hate or love such a epic sense. We will say goodbye. And I can feel the feathers, one by one being plucked off me. None of this is helped by the fact that everyone hated my play. They hated it with a passion. �People aren't like that!� they said. So I�m revising every word. Tap tap taping on the keys as if it will help. But part of me wants to answer that question, indignant and young: �people aren't like that you say? Oh, but they are. They are.� 11:32 p.m. - 2001-04-11 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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