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One Building
Jun. 8th, 2016 10:30 amA lot's changed over the years. About this building, about how we see ourselves. The bathrooms here used to use marble dividers, not plastic. We used to say, "We're so classy, even our bathrooms are classy." That's not the style these days. Now we're modern and quirky and plastic. By the time I got here, there was just one left, in the basement, that hadn't been remodeled.
It had a shower, too. An old thing, out of place with the marble dividers, with an unappealing wooden platform. Not sure why it was put in originally; it was too old for the whole bike commuter thing. When I got here, I think it was mainly used by homeless people.
The remodeled bathroom still has a shower. It's nicer, certainly. It has a card reader, too, to keep the homeless out.
The room where I work used to be part of some grand thing, two stories tall. Now it's all subdivided into tiny offices. You can still see the old balcony railings, just inside the white panels. Was it a library, before? A fancy hall? No one knows. No one remembers.
I like to romanticize the past, to miss the marble dividers and brass elevator doors and long-gone tapestries and memorial plaques. It's easy to form attachment to things that feel special, things that maybe no one else cares about. Does some spirit of the place remember what it used to be? When it was a more celebrated, a happier place? Does attention, does memory mean anything to it? Or is that past just gone?
The saddest part, though, is the card reader. You can gild the past, or laud progress, but it comes down to locks and bars. We build things, and then say "ours; keep out". We spend money heating empty buildings all night, and meanwhile people shiver in doorways and under bridges. Of course it's practical: keep your cleaning costs down, make it harder for people to steal your projectors. But it's selfish and sad. In the old days, Zeus would judge you based on your treatment of a wandering stranger. But we turn away wandering strangers every night, and think nothing of it. And meanwhile our buildings are beautiful, clean, and empty.
It had a shower, too. An old thing, out of place with the marble dividers, with an unappealing wooden platform. Not sure why it was put in originally; it was too old for the whole bike commuter thing. When I got here, I think it was mainly used by homeless people.
The remodeled bathroom still has a shower. It's nicer, certainly. It has a card reader, too, to keep the homeless out.
The room where I work used to be part of some grand thing, two stories tall. Now it's all subdivided into tiny offices. You can still see the old balcony railings, just inside the white panels. Was it a library, before? A fancy hall? No one knows. No one remembers.
I like to romanticize the past, to miss the marble dividers and brass elevator doors and long-gone tapestries and memorial plaques. It's easy to form attachment to things that feel special, things that maybe no one else cares about. Does some spirit of the place remember what it used to be? When it was a more celebrated, a happier place? Does attention, does memory mean anything to it? Or is that past just gone?
The saddest part, though, is the card reader. You can gild the past, or laud progress, but it comes down to locks and bars. We build things, and then say "ours; keep out". We spend money heating empty buildings all night, and meanwhile people shiver in doorways and under bridges. Of course it's practical: keep your cleaning costs down, make it harder for people to steal your projectors. But it's selfish and sad. In the old days, Zeus would judge you based on your treatment of a wandering stranger. But we turn away wandering strangers every night, and think nothing of it. And meanwhile our buildings are beautiful, clean, and empty.
