All good things have endings?

It's one of those mean facts of life that we want what we can't have, once we get it we don't want it anymore, and once we lose it we realize just how much we've lost. Sometimes we're forced to make decisions that go against our emotions. Sometimes logistics and practicality and proximity and timing decide for us, despite the panging objections of the heart. Invariably those decisions hurt - this time, far more than I anticipated. We pretend to be comforted by the fact that it was the right choice. It made sense. It had to happen as it did. And maybe in a few days or months or years it'll all come together as it should. But not today. Today it hurts.

Snow Day

The first significant snowfall since Christmas settled upon my lovely Philadelphia this morning. On the plus side, my only class of the day was canceled. On the downside, so was my flight. So now I'm fixin' to fly out for Detroit at 6:15 am tomorrow morning. This throws a wrench into plans for today and for the weekend, and I'll surely be unable to see everyone I had hoped to in my now two-day excursion to the Motor City.

Alas. The snow isn't all bad; in fact I quite like it. It changes the pace of the city. Somehow it's simultaneously slower yet frenzied. I walked through Rittenhouse Square on my way here (Capriccio on 17th and Locust), and as always, found it to be the most magical place in the world. A couple sipped steaming coffee while laughing on a park bench. People played with their dogs who were so excited about this strange stuff covering the ground. A dad threw snowballs with his three daughters. A bunch of kids in sweatshirts and snowpants were playing football. People are rushing to get outside and enjoy their lives. I love this city. I love slushing around in my snow boots. I love the way my right sock always works its way off my foot in my snow boots. Wait. I hate that. Why only my right sock? It's too funny to be annoying. But I digress.

So an intended travel day becomes a blessed free day? (<----attempt at optimism). I'm here at the cafe to get my sketch on. I feel like I've been working my booty off these last couple weeks and accomplishing little. The workpile is increasing exponentially and I'm barely making a dent. On top of it all I'm supposed to be applying for internships. On Wednesday night I was freaking out about them. Today I'm feeling better. It seems that most firms who do urban design are looking for people with hand drawing skills. Hurray! That's me. Who knew an art major would ever be useful for something?

Strangely enough I'm sketching more than ever lately. It's like now that I don't have to be artistic and don't have to keep a sketchbook, I want to. I'm not afraid of sucking anymore. I mean, I might suck, but at least I'm not afraid of it, and I guess that's what counts. People here are easily impressed and that gives me the shallow confidence to keep drawing. Actually, I just want to draw. It feels good. It keeps me psychologically warmed up for anything requiring creativity. I'm also writing with my left hand a lot - even more than I did in college. I actually like that handwriting better now. And I like my left-handed drawings better. Weird.

I'm leading a double-life. Two cities. Two handwritings. Two faiths (or one faith and a lack thereof). Two sets of friends. It's fractured. It was disconcerting. I think I'm used to it now. The being used to it is disconcerting.

I realize I should put some pictures on here. I'll get on that.

Just wanted to update you.

hearts,
-k

Making plans to change the world, while the world is changing us

Just finished a panel discussion on slum upgrading. The panelists were incredibly established in their fields and accordingly intelligent. I can't ever attend these things without leaving inspired. Even though the problems are staggering and potentially depressing, they're also laden with hope. It's fascinating to see how well people can help themselves with so few resources. It makes me feel lucky and lazy, and therefore liable to be part of the solution.

A recent conversation with a friend revealed to me that not all people care about changing the world. Not everyone has such lofty aspirations. This isn't to sound like I'm really great because I do want to change the world. But rather I feel that because I care (and not as many people care as I previously thought) I have to do something about it. That makes me feel hopeful and accountable and directed.

It also makes me hopeful about my field again. Last semester I was down on planners because historically they have fucked up some cities (i.e. urban renewal). Or else, they've been impotent suckers stuck in big city bureaucracies. But what all of these experts are telling us is "We need city planners because you guys see the big picture." According to these international housing experts and CEO's and World Bank employees, economists and engineers problem solve in ways that don't account for social complexities. So they like us and they need us because essentially, we're generalists.

That feels good. I am a generalist. And up until recently I thought that was a bad thing. I like people and I like science and literature and art, dammit. I'm not sorry for it anymore. As far as talent goes, I don't have much stacked up in any one area, but I've got a little in a lot of different areas, and hopefully that'll be worth something in this field.

Those feelings are reassuring because I've been feeling lost again. This time around though, I don't feel the urgent sense of needing to be found. I'm resigned to it; I'm indifferent about it. I'm changing and I don't know how but I know that I'm different. It makes me feel dishonest or rather, incapable of being honest, because I don't know what is true.

I'm getting confident in my uncertainty. I realize that's dangerous. I fear my new moral-free decisions will be regrets once my conscience comes back. I'm getting assertive. I'm getting blasé. I wonder if I really feel grown-up or if I'm just acting how I think people my age or in my position are supposed to act.

The confidence helps with school though. Last week I turned in my resume and design portfolio for my Urban Design Methods class, complete with three terms which describe my design identity: contextual, comprehensive, catalytic. I used alliteration and I presumptuously claimed to be catalytic. I'm not sorry. We included a page which describes how our layout format embodies our three terms as well as our explanations for choosing them. I explained that while I haven't designed anything catalytic as of yet, I intend to. Those words may not yet be my design identity, but I intend them to be once I'm done here. And I designed my shit the way I wanted, rather than the way my professor might've liked. He's all about stark simplicity - "clean" is his one design term. I respect that, but I had to do it the way I wanted. I don't think it's cluttered or over-designed. I definitely care about criticism and look forward to feedback. Critique is the only way that one can improve. This time around though, (as opposed to in studio art in undergrad), I'm not afraid of not being cool or progressive enough for my professors. I am what I am and I think what I think. By the end of this schoolin' those things will be refined but the basics are established.

I guess I'm progressing professionally. I'm undoubtedly changing personally, but I don't know whether it's for the better or worse. Actually, if I don't know, it's probably for the worst. Oh well. I don't feel much about it at the moment.

I believe in God still, and the person of Jesus is too amazing to doubt. Those are intact. I can't bring myself to go to church. If I could just listen to talented musicians playing incredible arrangements all day I would do that. But I can't. I don't buy much of the rest of it.

One thought keeps resounding in my head, from the movie Paris, Je T'aime. "By acting like a man in love, he became a man in love." This a beautiful thought that might be true. I wonder if I should seek God in this season of Lent, in an according manner and see what I find. I don't really know how to seek tho. I'll ruminate more and decide later.

Unoriginal thoughts on names.

I have much to do as always but am procrastinating to write this blog. I already began one about Brian's visit but was too tired to finish it last night. I'll be sure to complete and post it soon. In the meantime you can look at the pictures on my google pictures website.

At the moment a few thoughts are swirling in my head. Research shows that everyone's favorite word is their own name. Interesting. You never notice how infrequently your name is said until someone says it. Usually, people just great each other with "Hey, how are you doing?", or initiate questions and conversation by making eye contact rather than saying the person's name. But when your name is said, especially by someone you're close to or intersted in, notice your visceral pleasure at the sound.

Names are an interesting phenomenon. I love hearing Julie and Rick call me "Kris" because they have for my whole life and it implies a unique closeness between us. However, if anyone else calls me that (besides my parents maybe) it's weird. Receiving nicknames from friends or bestowing them upon friends establishes some new identity and bond between you. By the same token, I associate some nicknames (Kray) with a specific group of people and a specific time in my life. It's sometimes disconcerting when I'm referred to like that now.
Hearing someone call to herself or others call someone by a nickname you gave is strangely satisfying.

As CB pointed out, I introduced him to my friends as "Crazy Brian", which was almost a self-fulfilling prophesy. I hope I didn't put too much pressure on him to live up to his name.

That's all for now. Back to work.