Laying The Foundation the Tower Of Eden (AKA: The Paper)

It's a warm summer day. I'm standing next to Jaime, my eldest sister, atop the seven-story parking complex that provides short-term residence for cars visiting The Mall of America. She stands, smoking a Camel Red, asking me how life is going. I pause for a moment to think. Not much exciting has happened to me this summer. When things become dull and mundane, I spend my time hidden away beneath my skull, mulling over ways to change the the world without. This empty time has been made more plentiful by my decision to spend less time with my friends; it has been weeks since I crossed paths with any of them. But I am not entirely isolated.

Although the world around me slowly ticks away, carrying on with its same routine, inside my head synapses fire to form a thunderstorm of ideas that plead to be united with each-other and molded into something truly amazing. I'm sure as this is taking place internally (between my sister's question and my answer) Jaime is growing impatient. I am undoubtedly staring blankly at an endless void obstructed only by the second largest mall in existence .

The asphalt painted space around me sets loose a train of thought that heads towards all the great things that come to a city. In a city, there is efficient apartment housing, grocery stores, restaurants, and businesses all packed neatly into highrise-skyscrapers. So what is there that a small town has that a city doesn't? A long drive through rural South Dakota gives one the answer. Traveling west on I-90, you will undoubtedly tire from the scenery: when you look out the driver's side window you'll see fields of corn reaching to the southern horizon, when you look out the passenger side window you'll see fields of soybeans reaching to the northern horizon. Farms are everywhere, except in dense metropolitan areas. Food must be shipped cross-country to feed all the hungry little urbanites. It isn't feasible to build farms in the heart of a city. Is it? This question is on my mind as my sister ashes her cigarette and then returns it to her lips. Instead of answering her question, I pose one of my own. "If all other basic necessities have been brought to the Metropolis, why not the most basic: food?" She brings up the same pre-industrial age problem. "There isn't enough space." Using the traditional methods one would not be able to run a farm on a city lot between the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building. To make this crazy idea work, farming methods would have to be rethought.

I challenge my imagination to find a solution to this difficult task. To my knowledge, nobody has attempted to do this on a grand scale. People have built community gardens on vacant lots and small greenhouses on rooftops. These are projects that are built as hobbies or in a community building effort. In order to provide a substantial food source a much larger and more efficient project would need to be built. Current food operations don't provide enough space. Thinking two dimensionally, we can only grow plants in the area provided by a plot's width and length. There must be a way to attain more space.

And then I realize the solution is staring me right in the face . Why would one construct a garden between skyscrapers, when they could build it inside one? After all, high-rise buildings were created to provide more space while maintaining a small footprint. I see one critical problem. Skyscrapers are designed for people. Regardless of what the building's purpose is, it is designed to bring people up to a certain floor and then return them to the ground. If a pre-existing building were used, equipment, produce, and workers would need to be transported using elevators. This model would require larger freight elevators that would take up much of the space required for growing. Also if one of these elevators broke down the whole operation would be put on hold.

I tell all this to my sister. She agrees with my argument and is as lost for a solution as I. The floor design of current skyscrapers is not adequate for mass production. We attempt to find the missing puzzle piece to this game of thought, as we both lean against the concrete guard railing, that keeps us from falling to our certain end. I realize how far up I've gotten myself. And then how I got here.

Jaime had no luck finding parking on the floor dubbed New York. So she had continued up the spiraling ramp towards Florida. Still no luck. Then we had past through Tennessee which was also full. Finally continuing up the circling path, we made it to the roof, Hawaii. I find my answer. Parking ramps wouldn't work if their layout was similar to that of a regular building. I can't imagine how cramped it would get if they depended on lifts. But someone had already found a way to make them work. By connecting the levels with coiling ramps it was made possible for one to freely drive to the top and then exit by continuing on their path.

If a skyscraper were to use a similar model, moving equipment and produce would be much easier. The trouble is in connecting the floors. A colossal parking ramp style skyscraper might work. But it's rather chaotic, I am seeking something more elegant. The idea comes to me rather simply. Instead of connecting with ramps, make the whole building one continuous sloping floor. As long as the slope is steep enough there could be head room for the story bellow. There would be no stories just complete rotations. After circling around 360 degrees one would have risen an amount equal to one story. All of this seems to be falling into place. It may be possible to create more usable space for agriculture within a city.

As the gears and cogs, set delicately in my cranium, spin wildly they began to slip (there's a missing part). How will these plants be grown? It's not common for anything more than a potted plant atop the desk of an office worker, to grow closed off from the outside world on the forty-second floor of a high-rise. This model would be taking a similar space and using it for a much greater growth. Traditional farms till, plant, and harvest on soil laden fields using diesel equipment. This method is unfit for a building. A building would collapse under such weight. Not to mention that a soil based operation would not produce enough food within the limitations of space inside a building. It's fortunate that I'm somewhat of a nerd, because I already know of an alternate method of growing produce. The answer here is hydroponics.

Now, what exactly is hydroponics? Well the word itself is Greek. "Hydro" of course means water and the "ponics" part is derived from the word "ponos" which means labor. This would have been an intelligent thing to say to my sister, but instead I find myself muttering something like, "What about growing plants with that hydro-thingy? You know where you can grow anything you want in water without soil or anything. And you can use lamps so they don't even need to be outside." Luckily she doesn't know much about hydroponics either, so she thinks it is a brilliant idea.

We had left some things out. In hydroponics you do grow plants in water, but not just water. First off, plants need support for their roots, some sort of medium (such as rocks, Leca, or perlite) to anchor to. Secondly the "water" they are grown in is full of l chemical nutrients that must be added to actually feed the plants. All of this so far doesn't interfere with my master plan. But there is one critical bit of information that could cripple my whole scheme. You can't grow anything you want using hydroponics. In fact the selection is rather limited. It wouldn't be possible to grow all the food for a city within such a structure. Thankfully I don't know this tid-bit of knowledge yet.

Jaime and I continue with our game of thought. And ignorantly being under the assumption that we had found the last piece to the puzzle we stepped back to see the whole picture. I gaze off into the distance again--but this time with intent. I imagine this theoretical structure is built there. As I point, tracing the outline, it begins to take form for my sister too. We are startled by the height of this figment towering over us. In Illinois the Chicago Spire under construction is going to rise two-thousand feet. My tower could potentially be that tall. That could mean two-hundred floors corkscrewing up. One-hundred acres of plants could easily be coiled inside such a structure. All of the space would be taken up by plants--which I come to later learn would mostly likely be tomatoes, lettuce, herbs, melons, or strawberries. These plant would be grown year round, with numerous harvests . And most likely with a higher yield and density. They could be harvested using machines that run on ceiling mounted rails. After being brought below street level they could be transported around the city using subway trains. All of this would run like clockwork.

The image of the building slowly fades as I ramble on about the benefits this type of infrastructure may give. It will bring food directly to the city guaranteeing freshness. This also cuts back on fossil fuel consumption. I once heard that 19% percent of the United States fossil fuel is used for the food system. The building itself could be constructed for efficiency. Solar panels could be mounted on the outside. A water tower could be place on the top to act as a reservoir for for the plants. Weather such as droughts or floods would not effect growth. There would be few insects or weeds, so pesticides and herbicides wouldn't need to be used. It would provide jobs. Such a model could be used in areas with a low amount of food, such as Dubai. It could be built in an aesthetically pleasing way that would improve the skyline. Such an idea could revolutionize the way we think of food.

My tangent, although valid, has gone on too long. My sister's cigarette had gone out long ago. And as she continues to agree with and rebuke my ideas I detect impatience. The sun has calmly sneaked below the horizon. I was so lost in conversation that I had forgotten why we came here. The third X-Men movie has just come out and we planned to see it at the movie theater packed in between the stores, the restaurants, and the indoor theme park. For some unknown reason she and I always go to see super hero movies together. It has gotten late and the movie is about to start. We walk down the stairs, go across the skyway, pass Hooters, and stop in front of the ticket booth. I pay for my ticket and skip the popcorn. The line for concessions is too long and I don't want to miss the credits. I plop down in front of the silver screen, lean back, and rest my feet atop the vacant chair ahead of me. It is time to put away my cape and thinking cap and let the X-Team have a go at saving the world. After all, redesigning the metropolitan food system can wait another day.

My Acceptance Speech

"I am proud to announce that coming September I will be attending a Bennington College. It is an amazing liberal arts school of no more that eight-hundred undergrad students. Bennington College is located on a quaint little mountain in North Bennington, Vermont. The college opened only seventy-five years ago. The land the school was built on used to be a farm. Many of the buildings still remain from the conversion. All of the literature classes are held in what used to be the main building. The admissions are kept in the old farm house. Many new additions have been added though. There are new student housing complexes, a new student center, and most importantly a new art center. In the art center there are three theaters, the largest spring dance floor in Vermont, and independent studio space for all students taking an art class. It is here that I hope to take architecture and spend my time revolutionizing the way I look at building design.

The student body consist of mostly females--a three to one ratio of girls to guys. This is due to Bennington's long history of being an all girls school. It wasn't until 1969 that they decided to start admitting males. I'm under the assumption that this unfair balance of girls to guys will work in my favor. I visited Bennington last fall. I was witness to many beautiful women in need of companionship. I feel that it is my duty to help them attain it."

-This is the speech I was hoping to give you.

Here is the truth-

Currently I am sitting at my desk (upstairs, on May 29th.) Outside it continues to rain. A chill breeze passes as I attempt to type what I'd rather not. The sad truth is that I was not excepted. It was a long time ago (in mid April) that I received my rejection letter. It was sort and curt. No fluff. Just got to the point. Bennington doesn't want me. It's disappointing not to get in to your first choice, but it's so much worse to not get excepted to your only choice. Yeah.. I sort of made the mistake of only summit my common application to one school. But I have a new plan..

School. Rather important. Although it is far too late to apply to any Private or State School, I can still go to community college. MCTC to be exact. Yes I know it's a bit less glamourous, but it's my only option. Truthfully though, I'm rather thankful that it has come to this. My whole life I've thought of school as something to feud with or as an optical to overcome. It has caused me much unneeded stress. In fact, right now as I write this to you I should be writing an eight page paper. A paper that is required for me to graduate. But once it is done I will be able to graduate. And then I will be free. Well sort of. Which gets me back to what I was trying to say. Being able to take a year off will be relaxing. And the credits I will receive will be far cheaper. Thus leaving me in less debt. My living arrangement makes thing even cheaper. I will be living rent free in Minneapolis with my good friend Zach Werner and his parents. All of this is great. But my hidden goal is to transfer out to Bennington or a different liberal arts school next year. Wish me luck.

I must cut this post short... If any of this is to come true, I will have to get to work on my ever so important paper. The topic of which is Commercial Urban Farming. If you don't know what that is, I guess you'll have to wait until my masterpiece of a paper is finished. I know. I know. Waiting sucks. But sometimes we all must succumb to the passage of time.

My Addiction

If you are planning to read an aimless rant about nothing (mainly me being lame) you will be highly disappointed. The issues brought up in this post will not be about lava lamps, tight pants, or maggots. This post will mean something. Everything. It will reinvent your view on what is important. Orphans, wars, and drowning polar bears are of no concern. These issues are too small; they are hardly worth mention. I'm here to cover what matters to me, and therefore to everyone. Now without delay, I will bring you the body of my ever-so important rant.

The consumption of drugs can be dangerous, even lethal. People die every day, overdosing; after deciding that their short stack of pancakes would taste far better if they sprinkled a little bit of heroin on top. Only to end up downing a whole gram, completely forgetting about the bacon and side of over-easy eggs. Others, while participating in drinking games chose to snack on pills of adderall in attempt to ensure their victory. These "victors" are found the next day dead on the floor, after their heart could not decide if it was supposed to sleep or to dance.

My problem is far more concerning. My addiction will never kill me. It is not stoppable and everyday it grows stronger. Soon it will be it that consumes me. Morning, day, and night I am kept awake wondering if maybe just a little more might make everything all fall into place. Maybe everything will be better. But I know, not so secretly, my life will stay the same.

It got worse no more than a month ago. Nothing big happened in my life. There was no traumatic event that pushed me over the edge. I just started to become a more heavy user. There was I time which I just did it socially. Me and some friends would pool some money together to get a little bit. Then we'd huddle in corner or under bridges, so we could do it in our own way (some preferred to dilute it, but I have always taken it straight.)

After awhile I came to enjoy it more and more. I found myself coming home at night, only to hide in my room to quench my thirsty addiction. The good thing, or maybe the curse, is that I will never run out. I will always be able to score some more. It was a couple weeks ago that I decided to bring some paraphernalia to school so that I could be on the stuff even when I was in class. The piece sits calmly on my desk. Few people even notice, and those who do rarely know what it is.

I have a few friends that join me in this activity. But others are disgusted by it. My habit changed my behavior, stained my teeth, and it's taste still lingers on my tongue. Days that I do not get my fix, I suffer from headaches and sleepiness. Despite this, I'm not sure I want to change. I know that sounds bad. But I think it's true. As long as I keep it up I should never suffer from it's side effects. I've found myself able to accomplish more when I am under the influence (which I am as I write this). I have also become more conversational at social events. In fact I find myself not able to stop talking. Which is what I must do now. For when this chemical is in my body it makes me want to write. I have already said too much. And unless I stop now, I may never stop.

There will come a day that I will find it necessary to go cold turkey. But until then I will continue to consume and to write. Curse this liquid dependence, that I have come to call "coffee".

If Sadness Was a Piece of Hard Candy (Taken From Long Ago)

I have not had a new thought for a while now. Nor has anyone I know. The river which carries thoughts to my small village has long been dried up. We live here on this barren land. Without thought or idea. Exiting on instinked and routine. Living a rather mondain life. We only wait for the rain to come. It will come cascading down from the mountains flooding our patties and rejuvinating our village. Hope has run out a long while ago if only we had hope. We live like zombies. Never thinking, rarely speaking. Carring out our daily task never straying from what we had done the day before. We use to have philosiophers but they have all withered away. Every once in awhile a cloud passes over but no one ever takes notice. Sand covers our streets, our homes and our hearts. I no longer know weather I'm alive. If I were, I'd wish to die, but that isn't part of the routine. So I live.

Writing. Writing. (Written Awhile Back.)

Writing. Writing. Writing. My mind is a blank slate encompassing my body. I sit frozen staring at my computer screen. Every click of the keyboard reverberates in my skull. My thoughts lay dormaint in a crevase not seen for eons. I only wander what it is like for the charecters in my story. Are the dissapointed in me for failing them or have they been the one all alog conspire to freeze this plot so that they will never meet what was meant to be. Think. Think. I have chosen not to attempt to write untill my thoughts flow onto the page peacefully, of their own will, like that of a cascading waterfall. They will not be forced, backed into a corner, through mind maping and charecter analis. Not knowing what the ending leads one to feel that you may destroy what you have already written. I know my ending, its a master peice, but getting there has become a feet unsurmountable to meer mortal.

My story start like this.

.

It's a period. They are used to state the ending of an idea. I have chosen to place it at the begening. What does it mean? Well I have decided to leave that up to you. I know. But does that what I think it mean is the only answer? Yes. But you can still think of something regardless of the fact that it's bound to be wrong. After that artistic concept I chose to take the story to a mind blowing level. I leave the next 42 pages blank. Then I in the center of the 43rd page is the main charecters name. Although it is written in brail. And this is where I've stopped. I have the best story (or close to it) ever written this week. I'm thinking of making it a trilogy. Originally this was not my plan. I thought one long book with a rather large appendisies would be substantal. 3 is after four and before six. (That's depending on the relm in which you concepulize rational figures, such as numbers.)

You might be starting too see how this book of mine has come too a stand still. I could see how it migh be hard to conseptulize my highly sapirior concepts. But bear with me I due not find myself better than the average person, just my ideas. I write this to you hoping that one might become able to reach the same tear on the mountain of creativity. That's enough of my ideas. Back to my writer's block.....

College?

So anyways, I'm not sure how interesting this post will be. The context of the post is going to consist of numerous details on my sucking at applying to college. If thats your sort of thing read on. If not. You might as well read something else. Like me sucking at: parking, shopping, summers, act, life, lava lamps, and plenty of things. Now to continue with the body of the post.

The time is 10:01pm. I am sitting at a booth inside a diner called the Bad Waitress. Located in Minneapolis it is not far from my sisters close friend's , Amy, apartment. Amy is a very pretty girl who with short dark hair, 21, skinny, but most of all pretty. She lives up here with her boyfriend Nathan (tall, dark hair, nice guy, quiet). They are both great people, except for the fact that they have stolen Jaime (my twenty-two year old sister, with curly brown hair, brown eyes and red tights). They have taken her across the street to a bar called Azia. All of this would be fine, but my sister is to be helping me with my Common App essay. The essay in which I am currently at a loss of words. Again this would be fine. If it wasn't that the essay needs to be sent by the third of January. It is to be sent to my college of choice, Bennington...

I know I could continue on this rant, but I just got a surge of motivation for my essay. Wish me luck. I'm gonna need it..

Fifty Dollar Parking Spot

Today I woke up the day after our first snowstorm. Slowing arising from my insufficient slumber. I stayed in side delaying the inevitable. Reading. Waiting. I finally got up the courage to go outside to free my car of the snow that must have fallen on it overnight only to fine in snow-locked from the road it was once parked on. It must have been around 4:27, or so the ticket wedged neatly in my driver's side door reads, when a snow plow passed encasing my car in over a foot of compacted snow. Wade through the snow drift and force my car door open and collect the ticket, to whom which my misery is home. I am to be charge $50 to shovel my car onto the road. Starting my beast of a car to turn on the heat and blast the defroster will my my task somewhat less tiresome.

I leave my car and attempt to enter my friend, Max Pascall-Zimble's, new home were I stayed after moving his belongings from Lakeville down to Northfield. I turn the knob but it refuses to give. The door must be locked from the inside separating me from my bag and my warm mittens, the mitten I will need to shovel my way out. I go around to attempt to enter from the garage, but it is also locked. Max and his whole family had already left taking the keys. I return to my Oldsmobile grabbing the shovel on the way out. Receiving help from Allen, who's Blazer is in the same condition as my car, it only takes a few minutes to free the snow around my car. I am left alone to drive myself out. Throwing my car in to first. Then reverse. Back it to first. I inch my way out of my poorly chosen parking spot. Finally being free I have time to notice how much my hands sting from the cold. I wait for Allen to free himself. Then drive away.

Now I am at Blue Monday, writing this pointless post about how I was slightly inconvenienced by a pile of snow. This amount of snow was nothing, more will come. I will be come stuck over, and over again. Maybe going deep into the ditch, where it will take more hands and time to get out. I glad the snow has come. But having spent my last two dollars on a cup of coffee, I am not looking forward for the service charge for being buried by a snow plow.