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I had one very memorable visitor: an old man, short, with a wheelie bag, a can of Mother, and wearing perhaps a baseball cap. He was an ethnomusicologist, and somehow began to ramble wonderfully about the nomadic horsemen of Kyrgyzstan, playing their stringed instruments as they galloped.
Words felt flimsy and sometimes redundant, as I wondered how to situate my own in relation to architecture, which seemed manifest in such concrete, physical forms. I spent a lot of time looking out the glass windowfront and , listening peripherally to 89.7 Eastside FM, and conducting small, sporadic experiments that attempted to force language into the physical.
I left FY buzzing with thoughts about poetics -- the poetics of architecture, and the architecture of poetics; nested within that was a rhizome of notions, especially relating to materiality x textuality, and much of which I have yet to untangle for myself.