What I’ve been writing about the last 2 days…

I know that I haven’t been around my adoring fans (Eli), but here’s what I’ve been writing about the last two days:

What is the city but the people?

Coriolanus, 3.1.200

 

For those born in the digital age, the grid calls to mind the digital architecture that makes computers and the virtual space possible. A Google search on the term “The Grid” turns up sixteen different results before a Wikipedia entry discusses the phenomenon that is grid architecture throughout history. In a society where strong linear thinkers are judged to be the most logical and concise, it is fascinating that there is so little on the grid system as the model on which cities have been built. A well-conceived, planned, and executed grid is a powerful tool and artifact, no matter its size or application. In fact, the grid, logic, and linear thinking are judged to be so potent that even popular culture has found a way to make the concept popular:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFXYuw96d0c (This is an audio clip. Stop the video at 0:40 seconds)


In this fantasy, the grid is seen as a realm of endless possibility, where new and infinite opportunity exists to bind chaos through order. Interestingly, we base even our fantasies on our reality. Freeways on which motorcycles, or bundles of information, shuttle from point A to B describe a perfect system. The excitement the character must have felt, delving into the ‘new digital frontier’, must have been similar to the emotions felt two hundred years ago when, in 1811, New York City planners, including Gouverneur Morris, Simeon De Witt and John Rutherfurd, proposed a grid stretching northward from roughly Houston Street to 155th Street in Harlem. Here were a group of men who had planned out the next two centuries of growth. This was government sanctioned private growth where anything was possible. For over sixty years, Simeon De Witt oversaw the construction of a whole island.


In and of itself, the grid is not revolutionary; city’s built on the model of the grid have existed in one form or other since Ancient Grecian times, though it is certainly the case that the city of New York houses more people than any other in history utilizing this system. Indeed, the plan itself was ruthless - twelve North-South avenues and one hundred and fifty-five East-West streets with no thought given to any public space. The notable exception of Central Park came after the Commissioner’s Plan was in full swing, in 1858, when Frederick Law Olmstead and Calvert Vaux won a design competition. However, one of the beautiful things about the Commissioner’s Plan that no one expected (least of all in 1811), is that it remains one of the most remarkably adaptable city plans to date. New York City continues to evolve, both as a social experiment, an architectural one, and an artistic one. A small example of this is the transition from horse-drawn carriage to cars, trucks, and public transport, which was simple enough for the roads to accommodate. Another example is Columbus Circle; New York City was never meant to have an arrondissement in the same way that Parisian cities tend to, but the original Plan was flexible enough to be able to fix the “bow-tie” effect where Broadway and 8th Avenue meet at 59th Street. This is the brick and mortar that is what the city is made of, but is not necessarily what the city is.


We often think that the buildings are the skeleton of the city, while the people are its lifeblood. Who are the people though? I do not mean to plunge this paper into a philosophical monologue; I am asking who are, and what type of, people make this city what it is? What is it about the city that makes it so adaptable and change-friendly? At least, there used to be political will around change efforts where the landscape was concerned; perhaps, then a better question is what happened to make slow it all down?


As I wandered through The Greatest Grid exhibit at the Museum of the City of New York, I noticed only one small corner dedicated to the immigrant population that lived in the slums around the downtown core. Wealthy land owners developed the land into what is now one of largest grid cities in the world, the poor were perpetually pushed farther and farther away from the city centre. Where did all the poor people go? In the name of progress, slums were decimated and the land carved, so that huge tenements could spring up in their place. The sheer amount of industry was nothing short of remarkable. Clearly, when the poor inhabited the city, growth and change was easily achieved.


The famous quote which opened this paper is uttered by a representative of the people on the Roman Senate. This makes him wealthy, which in turn gives him a voice, and while he is of the people he is not from among them. Is he the what makes the city what it is? Jane Jacobs (1916-2006) articulated her ideas in such a powerful way that she was able to preserve her neighborhood and successfully voice opposition to urban renewal projects in the 1950s, preventing other kinds of growth. While she may have been incredibly vocal in her ideas, and persuasive enough to ensure their staying power, Jacobs argued for the status quo. Is she a good representation of the type of individual who gives the city its character and adaptability? Up until the 1970s, the political will to change the urban landscape was ambitious and nothing short of spectacular. Individuals such as Jane Jacobs were loud and clever in their opposition to such sweeping change. Ultimately, it is absurd to try and point to any single individual as being representative New York City’s adaptive grid system. However, several disturbing trends begin to emerge when we look at how a city transforms over time at the level of the human being.


Essentially, the poor immigrant population to whom New York was home in the early 1800s was disposable and made change possible by being voiceless. Not only were they disposable, but they also kept the cost of physically building the city cheap. This also meant that any change to the original plans was easy enough to change in reality. Thus, as the poor continued to displace themselves with the city they were building, those who could afford to live in the city centre were taking the stage. Aristocracy and a burgeoning upper-middle class could not be displaced so easily. As the city evolved and more people with voice lived there, physical change became harder and harder to come by. Preservation legislation came into effect, especially after several terrible miscalculations that cost the city some beautiful landmarks (such as the original Penn Station), which caused uproar in those that care about the aesthetics of the city, and in turn this created a kind of stasis around what can now be done in this city.


Another issue is that cities attract many, many individuals who, in an effort to change their lives, go through state education systems. In families where an education is non-traditional, this can cause a fracture between family members that contributes to the individualism that we see in today’s culture, which undermines change in a city. Often people go into higher education systems to find out new ways and to attain new tools to help fix the problems that existed in their communities back home. Unlike the remittance system, however, when one family member leaves home to try and elevate his/her status by getting a higher education so that he/she can do more systemic good, that person is often displaced and, in a sense, homeless. They will always have a family, this is true, but often there are tremendous communication breakdowns between the family and the person who has a higher education degree. This framework causes a perpetual disconnect among those who are living on the ground, in broken homes, and those who try to elevate themselves out of that situation in order to accomplish some greater good around fixing the situation. Those in higher education believe that they can help their communities by getting a higher education, but their communities see them as having gone in search of a brighter future which means they are out-of-touch with the day-to-day reality of what is happening on the ground. This breeds a certain degree of reluctance in accepting urban change even if it is of benefit to the community. It is a challenge with no obvious solution except time.


The Commissioner’s Plan, which has been so adaptable over the years, has to do with the input of many individuals who have been connected to the heart of the city and its landscape. Walking through the exhibition allowed me to see what I imagine was a fraction of all the different iterations and processes that exist when something as momentous as a city is built. It also made me reflect on how many different moving parts a city planner, architect, and engineer really needs to focus on when building out a plan. A building, while it may be a concrete use of capital and investment, is really the provision of a service. Thinking through the questions of who the service is for, who benefits, and who loses out are all important policy questions that have to be considered now; when New York City was first being built, however, this was not the case. I focused on the city’s adaptability from a human perspective, but this is really only one aspect of what makes a city adaptable and capable of transformation. The grid as a digital information superhighway that is a world we can enter into is fantasy; the New York City grid system, as a place of infinite possibility and adaptability is not so far-fetched. The two hundredth anniversary of the Commissioner’s Plan helped show me how it all came to pass and that timing, space, and atmosphere are everything.

dm.
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A Brand New Week

Well. It has been a full week since I’ve sat down and written anything close to resembling one hour’s worth of writing. Fail. Epic fail. I’m afraid I’m not as committed to writing for an hour/day as I might have hoped. On the other hand, I really do think it’s just a function of sleep. I need to be getting more sleep, earlier, rather than waking up when I do. It’s really about commitment to getting up, not commitment to writing, that I lack. I’ll try to start off where I left off last week.

Zachary Nikahd is 13 and a half years old. Look at him. Though it doesn’t even cover his ears, his hair is long for a boy. Not long like the golden tresses of professional soccer players long, but messy, black, and sticks out in all directions. His arms are wrapped around his father and he has a big, goofy smile on his face. That smile says a lot about him. We know, for example, that he has braces because his smile shows them to us. That smile pushes his cheeks back, creates a continuous line from the corner of his nose to the corner of his lips, and carries on towards the chin in what looks like an incomplete triangle. Two smaller creases, like footballer war-paint, smile their own smile just beneath his eyes. Chubby-cheeked and smiling: he is an awkward-looking child, though clearly happy.

A snapshot in Zachary’s life. What can you tell from a picture? There is nothing to interpret - what you see is what you get. For example, Zach was not always this happy. In fact he must have rejoiced every time he could be this happy. At this moment in time, he attends a private high school. About four years before this picture was taken, Zach attended a public school that he hated. It wasn’t that the public school was generally a bad one, at least not necessarily; it was just awful for Zach specifically. He was bullied. He didn’t learn the material being taught as quickly as the other students. He was always the youngest in the class. He didn’t have very many friends. He just didn’t fit in very much of anywhere. Zach would often become physically ill because of all the stress, and given that he was on a daily school-strike, his parents took him out of the public school system and put him into a private one. At the time this picture was taken, he had already spent three years attending the private school, and had learned more at any other point during his public school education.

Look at that, there again… a family that is full of love and is seemingly held together by it. This is not untrue, but more of a partial truth. The truth lies somewhere to the left of in-between, which means that more often than not, peace was the exception and not the rule. There would be days when Zach and his father wouldn’t talk for days because something Zach had done fell outside of his dad’s control. Zach spent most of his childhood on the lookout for the right formula that added up to fury. In other words, what was the combination of words, themes, and topics that, in combination with one another, would set him off. Math, for example, was always a subject that would lead to no good. Zach’s childhood was filled with these sorts of moments, where he would need help with his homework, his dad was the only one who could help him, but his dad’s teaching style and Zach’s learning style were incompatible. This was cause for dread. While Zach couldn’t put a name to why this kept happening, his dad would become furious when Zach continued in his inability to understand the material. 

At 13, even though Zach was clearly older, he still struggled to figure out the dynamics of being part of a family even meant. This happens over the course of your whole life, of course, as you change from child to adult and go from being born to a family into making your own, you struggle with a new dynamic yet again. We spend our whole lives trying to figure out what is the right way and what is the wrong way and Zach was mostly concerned with the right way because his entire life he was convinced that he was doing it the wrong way. This created in him a space where he could sit and watch. Like a guest, this space never left.

One episode of particular venom that will stick with Zach forever was one in which the fight had already happened and passed. He and his father hadn’t spoken in a while. Part of the reason that these cycles would happen was that he was always too scared to confront and stand-up to him, whereas he was always too angry at his son’s non-confrontational behavior to be calm. Zach spent so much time afraid of setting off that temper, but it would inevitably happen hard as he might try to avoid giving him a reason to be mad. One summer, Zach’s mother was sick with an infection. She needed antibiotics to get over the infection. The antibiotics prescribed to her were immense; these giant horse-pills that even someone who is good at swallowing medication would have thought twice about. They were substantial. Zach’s mother, who is notoriously bad at swallowing anything larger than a Tylenol (and even Tylenol is difficult sometimes), was terrified of taking them. So she cut one in half. Zach was in the living room, his mom and dad in the kitchen. The sun was on its way down, but it was summertime, so the air was still hot. It was a beautiful evening actually. The family ate on the deck that night.

She tried swallowing one half of the pill. The way she’d cut it, though, broke it jaggedly. As she tried to swallow it, the rough edge stuck in her throat. She began to choke. and choke. and retch. and choke. and it was stuck. and Zach, in the other room, was terrified. All of this noise that he’d never heard before was coming from his own mom. He ran into the kitchen to see what had happened, and she was on the floor crying. She was breathing, thank christ, and dad was on the floor beside her.

“Is she all right? What happened?”

and because dad still wasn’t talking to Zach, he just looked at him and didn’t say a word. Not a thing. Clearly Zach’s mother was breathing again and was fine, but what if she hadn’t been?Would he still not have spoken a word even if things had gone horribly, horribly wrong?

All right. Hacking away at this thing piece by piece. Perhaps this little creature will turn into something that’s at least partially readable. I’ve had a thought that maybe I just write three separate stories of the people in the photograph using only the names of those whose eyes we are seeing through. The boy - Zach - has a name in this story. His mother and father did not. When I write about the others, they will have names, but the other two characters will not. What does this do? First, it’s really damn hard to keep your pronouns right… I’ll figure it out.

dm.

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Not 9am today.

Well… a visitor has come today and so I wasn’t able to make my 9am start quite as I would have liked, but the visitor was worth it. I had to finish off yesterday’s post, which took up more time than I would have liked, but I think I’m going to create a short story about yesterday’s post anyways. The creative process is an interesting one… I think it’s fascinating that I started off describing a picture of a family, and wound up spending all day the day after trying to decipher what I’d written the day before, thought I’d come up with a schematic for writing a short story, but have now come up with something entirely different than what I’d initially thought I’d be writing about. We’ll see where this goes.

Zachary Nikahd is 13 and a half years old. Look at him. Though it doesn’t even cover his ears, his hair is a little long for a boy. It is messy, black, and grows straight up and out. His arms are wrapped around his father and he has a big, goofy smile on his face. That smile says a lot about him. We know, for example, that he has braces because the smile exposes them. That smile pushes his cheeks backwards, and creates a continuous line from the corner of his nose to the corner of his lips, carried towards the chin in what looks like an incomplete triangle. Two smaller creases, like footballer war-paint, smile their own smile just beneath his eyes. Chubby cheeked and smiling, he is an awkward-looking child. He’s clearly happy though.

 This was not always the case. Earlier in his life, four years earlier to be precise, Zach attended a public school that he hated. It wasn’t that the public school was generally a bad one, at least not necessarily; it was just awful for Zach specifically. He was bullied. A lot. He didn’t learn the material being taught as quickly as the other students. He was always the youngest in the class. He didn’t have very many friends. He just didn’t fit in very much of anywhere. Zach would often become physically ill because of all the stress, and given that he was on a daily school-strike, his parents took him out of the public school system and put him into a private one. At the time this picture was taken, he had already spent three years attending the private school, and had learned more at any other point during his public school education.

Look at that, there again… a family that is full of love and is seemingly held together by it. This is not untrue, but it is also not totally real either.  Sometimes, dad would get so mad at me for something that we wouldn’t talk for days. There is one experience in particular that has stuck with me my entire life, which is actually something of a miracle because I rarely remember anything from my childhood. There are very few memories, though, where I can remember every detail down to the way the air felt on my skin that I believe I will carry with me forever. Instances in my life that I will never forget. This is one of them.

Dad and I hadn’t spoken in a while. I was always too scared to confront him and he was always too angry to at my non-confrontational behavior to be calm with me. I spent so much of my childhood scared of setting off that temper, but it seemed as if it were an inevitability, and hard as I might try to avoid giving him a reason to be mad, he’d find one. One summer, my mom was sick with something, I can’t remember what, but she needed to take antibiotics to get over it. The antibiotics prescribed to her were immense, these giant horse-pills that even someone who is good at swallowing medication would have thought twice about. I mean, BIG. My mom, who is notoriously bad at swallowing anything larger than a Tylenol (and has trouble even with Tylenol sometimes), was terrified of taking them. So she cut one in half. I was in the living room of the house at the time. A fairly large and open space with blue walls and blue rag carpeting. Both my mom and dad were in the kitchen getting dinner ready. The sun was on its way down, but it was summertime, so it was still quite warm outside. It was a beautiful evening actually.

She tried swallowing one half of the pill, but the way she’d cut it, it broke. As she tried to swallow it, a jagged edge got stuck in her throat, and she began to choke. and choke. and retch. and choke. and it was stuck. and I was terrified to hear all of this noise that I’d never heard before. I ran into the kitchen to see what was going on, and mom was on the floor crying, but breathing thank christ, and dad was on the floor beside her. I asked, ‘Is she all right? What happened?” and because dad still wasn’t talking to me, he just looked at me and didn’t say a word. Not a thing. Clearly mom was breathing again and was fine, but what if she hadn’t been. Would he still not have talked to me? We had dinner as a family on the back porch that night, but this still remains one of my most vivid memories of that porch in the summertime.”

That’s it for today… Time’s up. The quoted section hasn’t changed at all. I haven’t gotten to it yet. Bah. Today was not a speedy day, though it was productive in other ways. Here’s hoping that tomorrow’s more successful.

dm.

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Finally… 9am

All right. It’s 9am. I’m beginning my hour long session. And I’m tired. My eyes hate me and are stabbing me with knives in protestation. My brain is sloping forward, which anyone who has been around me for any length of time knows that if my brain feels like it’s slouching, clearly it’s not crackling with the usual amount of synaptic electricity. I’ll be fine as the day goes on. I was reading an article the other day about the captains of business (O captain! My captain!), it was about morning rituals and how they prepare for success; there did not appear to be any kind of similarity between them except that they all got up early. I’m working on the early part.

I choose to work with the character of the boy first. He has not lived as long as the other two in the picture, clearly, but that does not mean he is any less complicated or complex a character. Yesterday, using my excruciatingly detailed description of him, I’d settled on two possible directions. He could still believe that his parents know best, by keeping his hair the way it is he has not really come out of his shell yet to define his own individuality in any outward way. The other direction was the notion that he is a bit of a wild character; someone who does not care what others think and dresses/has a style that suits that character. Let’s see where this goes. Maybe I won’t have to pick.

Zachary Nikahd was roughly 13 years old in this picture. He’s clearly happy. His arms, wrapped around his father with a big, goofy smile on his face. God. What an awkward child. At this point he was already three years into attending a private school, and had learned more in those three years than he had during his stint in the public school system. It wasn’t that public school was necessarily all that bad; it was just an awful experience for Zach specifically. He was bullied. A lot. He wasn’t really learning the material being taught. He didn’t have very many friends. He just didn’t fit in very much of anywhere. Finally, as Zach would often become physically ill because of all the stress, and given that he was practically on a daily school-strike, his parents took him out of the public school system and put him into a private one.

It changed his life. There was a dramatic shift, for him, in the perception around what he could do, what he was capable of. He had always been a child who heaped self-abuse on himself, had been doing that for quite a long time, he still is that child in many ways. While his confidence increased in this new environment, there was a corner of himself that would always remain his biggest challenge and betrayer. By the time of this picture, he was well-ensconced in the new system and as a result the family was a happier one because he was a happier child. Perhaps.

What’s the story that you’re trying to tell? About the boy? About an event? Are you trying to relate to the audience the relationship that the boy has to the other people in the picture? Are you going to do that through an event? There must be something to hook people into continuing. You have to give them something that they can work towards otherwise this is simply description for the sake of it.

When I spoke to Zach last, he described to me the first house he had ever lived, the only house he had ever known. The thing that he remembered most was the deck. The skinny backyard covered in grass, but mostly the huge deck that took up a lot of space on the lawn. It was a beautiful thing, in the dead of summer, when the sun was out and floating high and hot in the sky. He remembered his mother in sunglasses, her face upturned towards the sun, with a book in her lap, one leg tucked underneath the other as she sat on a bench, just soaking up the heat. His father, as per what father’s do, would roasting some corn or perhaps some chicken on the barbecue and the smell of it gave the air a new quality, as if it were on fire. The summer air was hot, thick, beautiful. As Zach and his family lived in the city center, they hoped that the swollen air didn’t mean smog, but that the sun’s rays had made the water in it fatter. These were good days and good memories. There were other memories that Zach spoke of, that were not as pleasant as this one.

“Sometimes, dad would get so mad at me for something that we wouldn’t talk for days. There is one experience in particular that has stuck with me my entire life, which is actually something of a miracle because I rarely remember anything from my childhood. There are very few memories, though, where I can remember every detail down to the way the air felt on my skin that I believe I will carry with me forever. Instances in my life that I will never forget. This is one of them.

Dad and I hadn’t spoken in a while. I was always too scared to confront him and he was always too angry to at my non-confrontational behavior to be calm with me. I spent so much of my childhood scared of setting off that temper, but it seemed as if it were an inevitability, and hard as I might try to avoid giving him a reason to be mad, he’d find one. One summer, my mom was sick with something, I can’t remember what, but she needed to take antibiotics to get over it. The antibiotics prescribed to her were immense, these giant horse-pills that even someone who is good at swallowing medication would have thought twice about. I mean, BIG. My mom, who is notoriously bad at swallowing anything larger than a Tylenol (and has trouble even with Tylenol sometimes), was terrified of taking them. So she cut one in half. I was in the living room of the house at the time. A fairly large and open space with blue walls and blue rag carpeting. Both my mom and dad were in the kitchen getting dinner ready. The sun was on its way down, but it was summertime, so it was still quite warm outside. It was a beautiful evening actually.

She tried swallowing one half of the pill, but the way she’d cut it, it broke. As she tried to swallow it, a jagged edge got stuck in her throat, and she began to choke. and choke. and retch. and choke. and it was stuck. and I was terrified to hear all of this noise that I’d never heard before. I ran into the kitchen to see what was going on, and mom was on the floor crying, but breathing thank christ, and dad was on the floor beside her. I asked, ‘Is she all right? What happened?” and because dad still wasn’t talking to me, he just looked at me and didn’t say a word. Not a thing. Clearly mom was breathing again and was fine, but what if she hadn’t been. Would he still not have talked to me? We had dinner as a family on the back porch that night, but this still remains one of my most vivid memories of that porch in the summertime.”

dm.

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Today

I just wanted to say that I’ve written for 1 hour today and that that post exists and will be published today, but it’s kind of confusing at the moment. I’m just making it a little less confusing (I promise I’m not refining it anymore than how I’ve originally written it), and it will still be a mess when I publish it… but believe me. I just need a little more time before I publish, but it’ll come out today.

dm.

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