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July 2, 2015


For the first time in over a year I have sorted my tools into their respective boxes, bags, and slots.

It took 30 minutes, but collectively over the last year, I thought about it for hours – looking into the back of my car, the tool closet and various odd places they had been scattered.

There is Joy in Order, but there is Fear in the Ordering.

Commitment to put anything in its place, the right place, means judgment, because if there is a “right” there is a “wrong”. What if I need the thing that I just put away? Now?

And then there is Sloth – doing less is easier than more. Then there is exhaustion: doing enough is never enough, so fatigue, as Vince Lombardi said (I think looking directly into my eyes) “makes cowards of us all.”

But the safety in surety, of declaring the “right” by sorting and asserting Control by Action provides a calm taste of a tiny place where you are not in danger, you have the rules and followed them, where, for now, you Know where you are.

But that calm is built on the oil slick of each actor’s actions. “Right” is only your “Right”: in your bubble, for now, until another comes into it, or the bubble bursts.

Religion makes these tiny “Right”‘s universal: it extends what is your order to The Order. And religion is not often about God: its about humans coping with the impossibility of controlling anything. Some now know, KNOW, that the next tick up by 2 degrees on the temperature scale will send the earth into a Microwave of Death. Others Know that Hillary or Jeb with Destroy America. Others Know that you are judged by the pets you save or the Bishop you elect, or the tattoos you choose.

My guess is that the Order we seek and the Values that seeking and ordering reflect are not so important beyond the order created. Of course pets need to be saved, the earth should not be baked and any next President will be evil to about half of the country: but putting my tools away and these other orderings begs The Question:

At the end, where will I be?

Happy? Angry? Sad? Wise? Confused? Loved? Hated?

A perfectly healthy, non-psychotic young Belgian woman wants to end her life to have that line of questioning ended. Now. Her government has said OK, and they will allow doctors to help her.

Sorting her tools was not enough. Binge watching was no solace. Assumably, sex, or a perfect croissant, did not give enough joy. The US women beating Germany was inadequate.

Ending is always an option: we can pull the plug on anything we plugged in. But most want the joys of experience, and those joys mean devotion in some measure to the show you are binge watching, the pastry you eat or that perfect slot for your favorite hammer. Experience requires existence for us humans, and experience can be scary.

So we control the controllable: who can marry who, the weight we lost, the degree we got, the resume we build.

In my world, Architecture, the Truth is found in Style for so many: it has the depth of Religion, and its lack of depth. “Modern” or “Classic”, invention or comfort, new or old (but mostly their presumptive simulations) give meaning to a designer’s lack of confidence – because its harder to have Faith than it is to Sort.

Like the young woman deciding to die because she has no faith and sorting herself into the non existence side, picking the side she knows is safer even though that could be wrong is easier than living in danger.

Its much easier to find a rut, a frame, a name, a fully formed belief, than to say that you only know what you know and have faith in the rest. I do not look at others to approve what I do, but if I feel what I am in is bogus the unrelenting ear worm of doubt usually course corrects, not discovering I have colored beyond the lines.

The mirror, or a dark silent room, or a 4 hour car trip is a better place, for me, to know where I am than a book, a movement or a perfect croissant.

If we measure by what we create to measure, there is no measurement – only another thing made. By us. For us.

When that tiny piece of Faith in something greater than us is worked, wished or drugged away, it does not have its plug pulled. Because we did not plug it in in the first place.

The joy in this world is clearly ecstatic, but that joy is not meaning.

Putting my tools away made me happy, but there was no meaning besides that. At the moment of death that Scandinavian woman will feel the same happiness over her act of control, but then?

4 Comments leave one →
  1. Janice permalink
    July 2, 2015 8:03 am

    This one goes into my core right now. Thank you, again, Duo. Your CT Yankee. JMG


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