September 18th, 2007
Eric says that I am a programmer at heart. I love logic, math, and order and I feel enormous satisfaction when solving problems objectively. I do not excel at tasks that are subjective or that require creativity and imagination. For this reason, I have decided to terminate my career in urban planning and pursue a second baccalaureate degree in computer science.
Until recently, I have hesitated to admit that I am interested in computer science. I did not want to compete with Eric because I will always be a few years behind him in terms of knowledge and experience. Over the past year, I watched his salary increase to almost three times my salary. I cannot imagine ever earning that much money as an urban planner. I realize that I am just as capable of doing the work that Eric does and could be earning a comparable income. However, my decision is not just about the money.
When I am feeling particularly discontent, I daydream about retiring early and building houses on the beaches in Mexico. But when asked about what I would do realistically if I did not have to work to pay the bills, I would want to design video game levels or create websites (something I already do in my spare time). I know that HTML and CSS are considered faux programming, but I do know some PHP (before switching to WordPress, Eric taught me enough to program my own blogging software) and my desire and aptitude to learn more is what convinced me that I should be a programmer already. And hey, maybe the vast piles of money I will earn as a programmer will enable me to retire early so I can build those houses in Mexico.
I am still interested in architecture and urban planning as a hobby and I am glad that there are people dedicated to making better places for us to live, work, and play… but that is not my niche. While I have learned much in the past year and gained invaluable experience, I have become disillusioned by the planning process. I cannot feel proud of the master plans I create when there are innumerable solutions to organizing buildings in the landscape (what if I did not choose the best one?), infinite color combinations to finish the drawings, and over twenty pages of writing that is mostly speculation, trite, and fluffy buzz words. Ultimately, I suppose I have just lost my enthusiasm for urban planning.
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September 6th, 2007
People are the most important part of places. I have written about this before. Twice. And I am delighted to read that the guys at Penny Arcade agree. In their news post today, Gabe recounts the success of PAX – the three-day game festival they host every year in Seattle, WA. He recalls that representatives (or perhaps, spies) from other festivals were taking notes and mapping the exhibits with the expectation that applying the same formula and using the same ingredients as PAX, they could reproduce the atmosphere and their festival could be just as successful. What they neglected to realize (as Gabe aptly wrote) is that it is not the physical setting that ensures the festival’s success – it is the community.
I have noticed the same phenomenon at bluegrass festivals. At FloydFest, like many other bluegrass festivals, an entire village is constructed only to be disassembled four days later. If such temporary and haphazard infrastructure can support thousands of people and accommodate their basic needs, what is the need for urban planners? Minimal planning was done to organize the campers at FloydFest. Rough guides were given in the form of tape laid out on the ground indicating recommended camping areas, but the festival attendees ultimately organized themselves. As an urban planner, I am often deeply concerned that while I may design an efficient and beautiful place, it will not be appreciated to its fullest potential without its intended population. Does the place – the physical setting – even matter without the people to animate and enliven it? And will people ultimately adapt their activities to whatever space they occupy regardless of how well-planned it was?
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September 2nd, 2007
Filmed in 1972, the movie Deliverance tells a story about four suburban professionals who endeavor on their final canoe journey down a river in rural Georgia that is scheduled to be flooded by real estate developers – imminently burying the valley, its provincial residents, and their culture along with it. By depicting the conflict between rival characters – city men and the country folk they encounter – the film addresses the deeper theme of urbanism versus rurality. It is not just a movie about survival, wit, and human nature; it is a movie about the rapidly disappearing countryside.
Based on a novel written in 1970, Deliverance illustrates the disparities between rural lifestyles and overpowering suburban culture. Suburbs became prevalent in the United States in the 1960s with the rise of Levittowns – mass-produced neighborhoods designed to supply affordable housing to veterans after World War II. This movie confirms that aversion to suburbs is not a recent phenomenon. As little as a decade after they became widespread, the threats that suburbs presented to the rural landscape were apparent and were being deliberated in film and literature. Why, then, were no efforts made to prevent reckless growth?
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