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So I guess I’m trying to put together a desperately eco-utopian garden clubhouse aesthetic.
A pitch: it’s 2035. You live in a lofty building with about 11 other people. The building is (by 2020 standards) overwhelmed by greenery and includes a communal garden where you all grow seriously huge vegetables to include with your meals.
The decor follows the natural color scheme with lots of hardwood surfaces, some greens, many variants of neutral stone. Square grids are a common motif, giving a sense of predictability to this space amidst the rapid change of the past decade.
The walls are decorated with framed artwork, each one showing an inked illustration or impression of a nature scene. Other surfaces have no such scenery—the chairs, tables, and rugs either present themselves with minimal adornment or are topped with in abstract, calm textiles.
You invite your roommate to the lounge for traditional game night. You look over your favorite chess set—the one with the smiling knights—but decide to take the Tarot deck off the media shelf for a lighter evening of trick-taking games.
Both you and your roommate dress with comfort as a priority. They wear flat sneakers with subtle checker boarding and a bee motif, consistent with the brown of their jumpsuit and yellow honeycomb neckerchief.
You’ve gone for a more conspicuous look, with the red NASA lettering popping off your ash gray bomber jacket. You replaced the American flag on the sleeve with a more personal symbol of pride. Your crew-neck shirt underneath is white, with an anatomy diagram of a crow head on it.
“Do you ever think it’s funny that we’ve turned this ancient divination tool into a game?” you ask. “It may not make sense, but I always wonder if I’m ruining the magic.”
“Games have always played at controlling fate,” they reassure. “The difference is that now, it’s workers like us steering the wheel of fortune.” Pointing at the necklace you’re wearing, they ask, “Isn’t that what this is about?”
Your necklace is the only metal you are wearing. At its center is the upper half of a red chess king you claimed from an incomplete set purchased at the local thrift store. It hangs upside down on your chest.
You wanna say—no, don’t be dramatic. It’s just an amateur craft you made because you felt like making something. But— meaning has grown into it. One day, no King, no billionaire, no crown-shaped virus will rule over the people ever again.
Also in this future, there is a pandemic vaccine in the public domain and DT died when he got his head stuck in the toilet.
