Ettore Sottsass, Valentine typewriter, 1969. Olivetti, Italy. Source

“What makes it fascinating is that it was the first time a company that specialized in making office equipment tried to turn the kind of machine that signalled work into something that looked playful. Or, as Sottsass put it, the kind of thing that might keep poets company on lonely Sundays in the country.” Deyan Sudjic / Source 

Notes From Japan | 3/3/2015

Packed inside of a car with nothing but my camera and two beers, we head west to the sea.

 I was told that the clouds left Kyushu the day I arrived. In the late summers air, nothing felt like the salt kissed breeze that day. Nothing smelled like the sea. 

For weeks I lived on borrowed time and the notion that running from my problems would help keep me sane. Fueled by traditions and customs foreign to me, there was something puzzling about the simplicity here.

I made a bed on floors and trains and tucked away in a capsule. With every night came a dream of destruction and growth.

I felt uneasy on the train back to the city. A bag full of beer and a head full of meaningless details carry me to sleep. In Hiroshima I had one for the things forgotten and the toxic air. I was explosive and wired. I was devastated and barren.

Now this wasteland bustles with life. Each alleyway and street a vein and artery.

I felt delicate, like the disintegrating tower or an atom spilt in two.  

Jordan Alan Brown

I’m beginning to worry that wading into this sea of unknown will only lead to me getting caught up in a riptide of memories and self doubt, drowning the possibility of something real with you. Then again, maybe this ocean is nothing but a mirage and I’ve been standing alone in a desert all along.
—  (c.m.) // I’m not sure if what we have is anything or if I’m just being delusional.