orange, modernism, and alpine elephants.

Be careful, I have things to say.
I would like to see us get out of this Tit-for-Tat Hammurabi role-model lifestyle. Hannibal, though, is a role model to me, but only because his idea of a good time was to ride elephants across the alps. My pass-times are easier to front, but similar in content. If you would like to join me sometime, I would welcome that. I've been having my go at modernist chairs. I've been drawing them, but made a bench. there was one, but we sold two of them. Now i'll make the other.

Honestly, i was surprised: I thought society had gotten a water-balloon launcher for its birthday and that it had been sending wrenches in the general direction of the modernist gears ever since.
For what it's worth, the style started out new. Then plywood and tubular steel were taken in by the great Schoolhouse. It's had it's remnant in the less funded schoolhouse ever since. They haven't bought new chairs since the sixties, when orange went out of style.

That said, it's coming back. It's approaching us from both ends of the spectrum: dollar-store price-tags and burnt-orange, cashmere sweaters. It's come further too: advanced to plastic dishware and degraded itself to the levels of pima cotton and merino.

So does fashion percipitate to the masses or make its way up through the ranks. I asked someone once. Qualified by years of fashion week and being the president of Sacks Fifth Ave. I asked the panel of two qualified people across lunch. they looked at me like the question showed how young i've stayed. i will not tell you what they answered. you'll have to do the thinking for yourself.

My parents are here and they brought me things, hit or miss, but with a general success rate. Things from home and things from my grandfather's tool room. They brought things that i will keep. A french Deco Magazine. Stencil sheets and a five paned window frame - the french kind that line the walls of our atttic like wainscoting. A cup I asked for and one they knew I would like. They brought the swiss made industrial cork-bottle opener I brought back from an abandoned factory.

I finally told them about the time i climbed the factory building fire escape, sat in the gutted window sill, and watched through the inside of the building as they demolished the other end, slowly, toward me. It was one open room, and they had men with hoses to keep the dust from combusting and men in giant machines tore and the concrete, brick, and rebar. It was beautiful but them men eventually saw me and came around to shout.

Willst du sterben?
Was machst du hier?
Hier is doch kein spielplatz!
Bist du Verruckt?

I climb down wordlessly and looked them in the eyes as i walked past them.

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