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14
November 1999
Oh!
A list of juicy (is that really a good adjective
in the context?) reading
material which reminds one it's time to look over
The
Society of the Spectacle again... Which by a precarious
free association recalls a dream I had last night. I don't
think I participated in the dream at all except as a sort
of observer, but Ume-the-cat (who is not famous except
in my world) was there walking underfoot while Beck
and Michel
(from Gide's
Immoralist)
were engaged in a lively discussion of performance art...
I'm convinced it was rife with meaning. Garbage-- nothing!
It's
true. Compassion
isn't the first adjective to spring to mind when one considers
Giuliani.
Why
is everyone so wide awake at 6.40 in the morning? I walked
to work in that thin, bluish skim milk light that's usually
an indication that it's fine to sleep for another hour...
I thought about biographies as I walked. I don't read
them very often (though I was fascinated with a biography
of Simone
de Beauvoir a few years ago... Was it the one by Deirdre
Bair?), and I rarely read about contemporary figures.
Biographies written about living people seem presumptuous...
Biographies (aside from a chronological element) are fiction.
A sort of grand, well-financed version of collegiate gossip,
where a few facts are used to make all sorts of titillating
deductions. Reading a brief review of a biography of Woody
Allen, I imagined that the subjects of such works
must feel a combination of outrage and smugness. I recall
the feeling from school. How can anyone claim to know
another person? Then, the illumination: the more you assume
you know about me, the more privacy it actually affords
me. You may all concentrate on my fictional self, while
my real self lives her secret life.
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13
November 1999
I
came into work ferociously determined to get stuff done
in the silence of the weekend (the studio normally maintains
itself at a cheerful roar, only slightly quieter than
the construction beneath my window); but I accidently
started reading Suey
Chow's advice column...I'm much wiser in the matters
of love, but not much closer to getting my work done.
Four
hours later I feel justified in going to the bookstore
to look up information on writing fiction.
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11
November 1999
Donald
Kuspit writes on nakedness and why we can't look away...
He explores the significance that nudity
acquires in dreams
and some artworks... In real life, it's not necessarily
even an erotic fascination. Part of it is about knowing
a secret. It's like having temporary access to information
I can't take notes on.
More
discussion on what defines an educated person. It's
the same debate that eventually comes down to whether
to emphasize facts or problem-solving skills in education...
I feel strongly that an emphasis on problem solving skills
helps provide the motivation to independently investigate
the kind of information on which an emphasis on memorization
concentrates (she admits uneasily)... But I hesitate to
voice that too confidently because I suspish that I may
be making the egotistical error of assuming everyone else
learns the way I do... I carefully expounded my theory
to one parent and was a bit taken aback by her response.
Instead of the eager nods I expected, she just howled
in indecent amusement. When she finally wiped the tears
from her eyes and controlled her slightly hysterical hiccups,
she grabbed me by the hair and in preternaturally guttural
tones suggested I test my hypothesis on her little beasts...
I don't have children.
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10
November 1999
Notes
from a provocative lecture by Nigel Coates on the erotic
dimension of design, specifically with respect to
architecture... Didn't he write a book on that too?...I
dreamed I was standing on the next to last step of a wide
enclosed stair with windows along either side, when I
was suddenly overcome with a heavy lassitude and felt
myself fall backward. As I tumbled down the stairs, I
could see another set of windows moving relative to those
in the walls enclosing the stairs. I remember wondering
what sort of space was contained between the two.
I'm
squished by what my mother, quoting someone or other,
refers to as the "tyranny of the urgent". Eighty-nine
unopened emails and a hundred and nine deadlines to be
met by yesterday... All punctuated by the indescribable
sound of the jackhammers beneath my window from 7.00 am
onward...Daily...Every day... On Saturday I bounded out
of bed in a rage and stalked off to find a book with whom
to eat breakfast. After some indecision, I discovered
a novel by Slavenka Drakulic called The
Taste of a Man. I tenderly escorted it to breakfast,
where I feasted on pćo
do queijo, fried plantains, coffee, and orange juice.
Between bites, I breathlessly contemplated cannibalism
as presented without losing my appetite enough to leave
any traces of the pćo do queijo uneaten or any pages of
the book unread.
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04
November 1999
Thanks
to two excruciating years in junior high, I read Latin
just well enough to be deriving much amusement and many
surreptitious giggles from using choice bits of St.
Augustine's Confessions as the (occasionally pertinent)
filler text in the present schematics I'm doing. I wonder
if the clients read Latin...
Bless
you, Shirky.com,
for articulating
so much of what I've been waving my arms and shouting
about (not literally, of course-- in reality l just mope
and speak only in monosyllables). My boss forwarded this
article to me and a horde of fellow information designer
types. It addresses what I perceive to be the biggest
issue with "user-centered design". A formulaic approach
to design implies that design is static, thereby dismissing
the role of the designer as inventor. Good design (design
that appreciates and appropriately challenges the user)
cannot be defined by a set of finite guidelines. To so
reduce the process miscalculates the extreme complexity
of the interpretation and use of user data into an experience
that effectively exploits that data to challenge or expand
upon existing precedents... It's the sort of thinking
that leads terror-stricken usability specialists to faint
at the sight of an un-underlined link... I wave the smelling
salts under their anachronistic, hide-bound old noses
and dump a bucket of cold dhtml on their heads. That's
the phenomenon that I didn't have the energy to respond
to in physical architecture. Let's hear less of it with
respect to building the web... Off to pick up the laundry
(in a huff).
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02
November 1999
I
read in Metropolis
Magazine that Douglas Leigh was the first to light
up the Empire State building, in honor of the bicentennial...
Which still doesn't give me any clue to the cryptic nightly
displays I can see from my wobbly fire escape.
An
interview
in 2wice
with industrial designers Laurene Leon and Constantin
Boym, in which they talk about commemorating tragedy...There's
also an article
(and images) on Frances Glessner Lee's Nutshell Studies
of unexplained death.
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01
November 1999
From
Lawrence
Durrell's adaptation of Royidis's gleefully written
Pope
Joan (gruesome and very, very funny):
I
forgot that Marguerite
Duras is one of my favorite writers ever. For a while
I used to reread her work on a weekly basis. I reread
The Ravishing of Lol Stein this weekend for the
first time in a couple of years. As always, I am startled
by the beauty of the language...
More
stuff to think about with respect to information: lots
of talking at cross purposes, but that's okay because
all the best new ideas come from misunderstandings anyhow
(the cleverest and most creatively stimulating people
are the ones who mumble and leave everything open to productive
misinterpretation, and then everyone gives them credit
for all the new ideas in the end). Think about connoisseurship
(what's a better word for that?)... If information is
inherently translatable, does that mean it's objective?
That's all.
I'm
not going to defend myself for poking around in areas
quite obviously outside those of my own expertise. Neither
will I defend my mid-Victorian obsession with italics...
Mainly because it's indefensible. Just be thankful for
my fortitude in the face of that most seductive of punctuation,
that siren of syntax...the exclamation point.
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October
1999