At work there is lots of Steelcase office furniture left over from the fifties. I actually don't know if it's from the fifties. It could be from the nineties.
I think our generation thinks everything not from the 00's is from the seventies- there is a design gap from what we remember as children or what we saw in movies, etc and its all wrong. No, that ugly building is not "from the seventies" it's actually from the forties and it's beautiful.
Anyway Steelcase office furniture from "the fifties"- ridiculously heavy filing cabinets and desks painted a slightly metallic yet dull grey. Intimidating grey metal chairs with green vinyl padding and rubber arm rests. Something you would sit in outside the principals office. It all has me thinking I want to create a writing corner or room in my apartment. My laptop and an ashtray and a coffee mug and a filing cabinet. Trying to create some version of 1950s New York in Chicago.
Isn't everyone everywhere always around the world trying to create some version of New York for themselves? Trying to New York themselves the hell away from wherever they are (mentally, spiritually, sexually). If they are not they should be.
This writerly office fantasy doesn't quite make sense though. Do I want to be a 1950's secretary or a 1950's writer? The answer of course is the former. And that doesn't get me anywhere. Steelcase Office furniture isn't for writing -it's for being sexually harrased while you type. Which is a fine fantasy but that's a lot of very heavy steel office furniture for roleplaying.
I think my real writing fantasy is being Johnny Depp in Secret Room. I think that was the name of that movie. Johnny Depp has fake trendy glasses and walks around in a robe and smokes and writes. I think I've already lived that fantasy! He's in a log cabin as I recall which I am indifferent about. And it's written by Mr. Stephen King who I adore. I love all of his fake East Coast towns. His female characters are the best (says this gay man). Kathy Bates as Annie Wilkes and Dolores Claiborne. Cujo! Cujo was an angry male dog but who can forget that yellow Toyota and the blond woman who played the mom. Held captive inside a yellow hatchback! Terrified of a Rabies! So eighties or fifties or twenties.
All I know is that I have to smoke while I write. Or know that I can smoke at some point very easily. Self destructive writer tools- alcohol, cocaine, nicotine. With every beautiful word exhaled to the world, a little hit of equally delicious poison taken. That's a mixed and or inablanced metaphor if I've ever written/blogged one.