The shape of design
Chapter one
How and why
“Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question.”
e.e. cummings
If in the spring of 2003 a nightwalker found himself passing by North Spaulding Road, and – despite the hour – had the presence of mind to look up, he would 2nd a light ablaze on the second 3oor. He would see me in pro2le, seated at my drafting table, kneading my face like a thick pile of dough. As I looked out the window, we would nod knowingly at one another, as if to say, “Yes, four in the morning is both too early and too late. Anyone awake must be up to no good, so let’s not ask any questions.” The nightwalker would continue down the street, weaving between
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the rows of parked cars and the sweetgum trees that bordered the sidewalk. I’d go back to kneading my face. I remember one speci2c night where I found myself on the tail end of a long, fruitless stretch. I took to gazing out the window to search for inspiration, to rest my eyes, to devise a plan to fake my death for forty-eight hours while my deadline whooshed past. I looked at the tree before my window and heard a sound rise from the leaves. It seemed misplaced, more likely to come from the cars than one of the trees next to them. “Weee-oooh, wooop, wwwrrrlll. Weee-oooh, wooop!” You don’t expect to hear the din of the city coming from the leaves of a sweetgum tree, but there it was. I scoured the leaves, and found myself trading glances with a mockingbird, each of us sizing the other up from our perches. He was plump in stature,
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clothed in brown and white feathers with black eyes that jumped from place to place. He had an almost indistinguishable neck to separate his head from his body, which I took as a reminder of the potential e5ects of my own poor posture. The leaves on the branch rustled as he leaned back to belt his chirps and chimes. Burrs fell from the tree, thwapped the ground, and rolled downhill on the sidewalk, eventually getting caught in the tiny crevasse between two blocks of cement, lining themselves up neatly like little spiked soldiers. Then, a suspenseful pause. We both held our breath. Finally, his call: “Weee-oooh, wooop, wwwrrrlll. Weee-oooh, wooop!” This was not the song of a bird, but the sound of a car alarm. He mimicked the medley of sounds with skill, always pausing for just the right amount of time to be in sync with the familiar tempo of the alarms that occasionally sounded on the block. Mockingbirds,