On Soft Closing Territory

I regret not going to the event: a discussion on systems and the methodical ordering of services. I could have gone but instead when I am asked what I am doing tonight, I respond by saying I am going home. Once seated in the car I promptly pass out.

I regret not going to the event still by the time I return home and the discussion is half-way through its proposed duration. I don't think about what I am missing, but instead lament about what I am not hearing. I have no real concept about the event's discussion ("logistics," "flow," "contemporary urbanism") but I decide not to try to figure it out on my own. The point of the discussion is to have the experts on the panel divulge the truth and the meaning to the order of systems. In missing the event I decide I am left for the better: innocence untainted by the knowledge of the machine.

I regret not going to the event. But I am so tired I shower with the lights off so that when I slide into bed between down comforters it is as if I have never left warmth.

There is something to be said about the remarkable invitation of a hot shower, without feeling like each individual water stream is an attack. Between down comforters: soft embrace, the maternal bosom of reclining. How does my architecture design the flow of touch? How inviting are the logistics of my design?

I would like an expert of panels to divulge the truth and the meaning to the order of my systems. The question then arises whether I would be the subject or if I would be the audience.

Would they need to touch me?

I submit an admission on debasement and pride to a question on the interpretation of terrain. I am the terrain, but my memory of the past is the map I cannot access: it is either before my eyes or it is not. Like an avatar in a video game, the perspective always follows me but I am not privy to the route or to the narrative. Until I respawn and repeat: do it again until you die again. Start from your save point.

Where did I last save?

There is an image that serves as a map of my memory and a compass for debasement. The map is a 1943 measuring tool for art: the ideal female figure as constructed by Andrew Loomis for his passively-titled instructional book, Figure Drawing for All It's Worth. Loomis provides the post-war world with the cheat codes to success, both for men and for women. This is how you win the game. Keep your salad fork held high and your smile symmetrical and you'll never need to save again.

You don't need experts to touch you to be ideal. You just need a measuring tape for all it's worth.