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Someone asked me what I meant by modern.  What specifically do you mean by modern? Bauhaus modern? This in the context of a duvet.  If I could have a duvet designed for me, one that would last for many years of my life, one that would become an integral part of my daily experience, every day pulling the duvet into a little triangle in the corner of the bed where I get in.   How would I want this duvet designed, keeping in mind the many changes that life will bring in the next ten to fifteen years.

Well, I would like it to be modern.  Sleek.  Clean lines. Simple. Blues, maybe grays.  But if you get inspired, please feel free to make what inspires you.  We like things that are quirky, yeah, so it could be modern and sleek, elegant, but it could also have moments of quirkiness, okay, maybe only one or two moments of quirkiness on this modern duvet.  We should keep the quirkiness to a minimum on this modern, elegant yet still very grounded and simple duvet.

I want to look at this King sized duvet covering our Queen sized bed and feel the warmth of Rothko.  Can you do that?  Is there any warmth in Rothko?  It's not primary, the warmth, but it may yet be there. I'm not sure.  You would have to go out to the balcony on the fourth floor and look down and compare the feeling to the feeling standing in front of one of Rothko's color fields.  But Rothko is already a cliche, and jumping off the building ledge to be impaled by a steel fence post, a stake through the gut, is not a good idea.  I have no thoughts of committing suicide, no ideation, no plans.  The idea belongs to Virginia Woolf, in her Mrs. Dalloway, the character Septimus Smith, who went to war for Shakespeare and the woman he loved, commits suicide in this fashion.

There is a connection between the modern, sleek, down-to-earth duvet, Rothko and Septimus Smith.  They are the fire and the water, the blazing torrent of my innards, the red ants that frenzy in my guts, and the quest for calm.  The sharp fuckable quench to the fire and the calm sea of San Sebastian.  Hemingway's guffaw and paradox, the desire for hot fuckable treats ("i'm just the same as anyone else when it comes to scratching for my meat" Bob Dylan sings in Goin' to Acapulco) and the liquid calm of bourbon whiskey or any other smoother smooth smoothness to life's raging gut bucket swarm fire, a pool of gasoline burning bright, right there on the floor.

liquid love for the long nights, fuckable or not,
Anthony

"Now, everytime, you know, when the well breaks down
I just go on and pump it some.
Rose Marie, she likes to go to big places,
and just sit there waiting for me to come."

Go and have some fun