“we have no interest in the next Hunter S. Thompson.” Accessibility is important, and the telling and sharing of stories around a campfire on some prehistoric steppe. Critical awe. Sparkly fascination with shiny baubles and trinkets. English Empire, with Ceylon Tea. Fiberoptic cables beams the world to my wood-desk. Avatars dancing, paper dolls jousting, across liquid crystal displays. Adam names the animals, and we name the toys we made, GI Joe, Transformers, and Thundercats.
Jasper John’s American Flag hangs on my wall. Upside down picture of President Bill Clinton’s campaign photo. The cover of the Allman Brothers Band boxset, Dreams, brown and oldlike — representing wood graind on cardboard, give me the real thing — Steampunk is the beautiful ornate art form that deals with the Real, the Real Wooden Pieces adorned to our lives — sing a song of greenwood, pocket full of tenpence.
This isn’t Hunter, this isn’t Burroughs, or Kerouac, no this old thing is my old thing, winding madness, but yes, critical awe, critical awe and thankfullness, gratitude, sitting in a room on the eigth floor of a killer highrise in Western Philadelphia, home of Unipenn, gleefully ripping my face off.