I think anyone who wants to make a creative effort to "turn back the pendulum" ought to make it a creative endeavor instead of buying the experience. It's fine to go someplace and pick up your steam goggles, victorian hats, etc, ESPECIALLY since patronizing these vendors encourages the availability of similar items. If the products are quality, why not?
But what I love about this genre is the organic and craft-based aesthetic that goes into creating things like ivory keyboards and brass-mounted wooden mp3 cases. Steampunk celebrates the same arts and crafts movement espoused by eminent Victorian critic John Ruskin. I think what we're experiencing is a renaissance in that rebellion against machine-made items. This is why some of the sites I selected for the recently-added Steampunk Support tab go to stores for clothing patterns and re-enactment gear, instead of ready-made costumes.
That being said, I initially felt awkward about posting them- it's one thing to casually invite friends to check out something you enjoyed, and quite another to shill (shilling was an inescapable aspect of the Victorian marketplace, though). Steampunk Support features some sites I have frequented and enjoyed in my own personal experience, and one or two that I have not. I checked the feedback ratings on the ones I have not personally used, and if it drops below 95%, I'm removing them. Hope you enjoy.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Brandon Urie can do more of this, as far as I'm concerned.
Now, isn't that pretty? Panic!At the Disco wasn't my favorite act originally, but between this and the Beatles tribute that is their "Pretty.Odd" album, they are going the right way for getting the attention of Thunder-child. And for anyone wondering, the rural American setting makes this more cattlepunk but the steam is undeniable.
Also, the wonderful crowd that brings down Mary is the league of S.T.E.A.M., and you can find out more about them at their official website. Enjoy your Sunday, and ask yourself, "Have I done sufficient for the advancement of Science and re-Victorianizing culture?"
Whoa, Mona Lisa you're guaranteed to run this town. Whoa Mona Lisa, I'd pay to see you frown!
Friday, July 29, 2011
Redneck Break: Porches
I love sitting on the porch on a hot summer night. What we have right now, unfortunately, is a wrap-around deck, "deck" being modern for "we don't have enough money or sense to put a roof on the porch". It's still pretty nice though: the dudes can sit out and smoke if it's their wish, and there are plenty of chairs on the back porch as well.
It's really important to have that cooling-off place, especially if the house is crowded like mine usually is any time of the year. Some day, we're going to act Shakespeare out off the landings (it makes a great stage) and once it's roofed, it will be perfect for any time of the year. It's ideal for family portraits, and easier to mark a boundary for small kids so they stay in sight, and it's nice to sit out when the weather's a little cooler and eat barbecue. The porch is probably considered more of a rural necessity than an urban one these days, since socializing on the porch means no or minimal internet access, and you'd need to know and be friends with a tolerable large amount of people in your town in order to porch-sit together. An internet cafe, it is not. That's a good thing, since it helps you stay connected with the people Providence placed around you- one of the best visits I had for someone's wedding, I sat out on the groom and his roommates' porch with the bride as well, and we ate pizza and drank beer into the night, passing time with talking about rock n roll and different beer companies.
I think internet's a great tool (cough writing on blog cough)but I'd rather not need it to stay in touch with people. If you are blessed with a porch or balcony area, try sitting out on it; saying hello to anyone who passes by your step and see if anyone says hello back- even if no-one does, the look of surprise is always entertaining.
It's really important to have that cooling-off place, especially if the house is crowded like mine usually is any time of the year. Some day, we're going to act Shakespeare out off the landings (it makes a great stage) and once it's roofed, it will be perfect for any time of the year. It's ideal for family portraits, and easier to mark a boundary for small kids so they stay in sight, and it's nice to sit out when the weather's a little cooler and eat barbecue. The porch is probably considered more of a rural necessity than an urban one these days, since socializing on the porch means no or minimal internet access, and you'd need to know and be friends with a tolerable large amount of people in your town in order to porch-sit together. An internet cafe, it is not. That's a good thing, since it helps you stay connected with the people Providence placed around you- one of the best visits I had for someone's wedding, I sat out on the groom and his roommates' porch with the bride as well, and we ate pizza and drank beer into the night, passing time with talking about rock n roll and different beer companies.
I think internet's a great tool (cough writing on blog cough)but I'd rather not need it to stay in touch with people. If you are blessed with a porch or balcony area, try sitting out on it; saying hello to anyone who passes by your step and see if anyone says hello back- even if no-one does, the look of surprise is always entertaining.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Chapter I, "Voyage of Thunderchild"
Note: The following is property of Angelie Roth. The characters and dialogued referenced are soley her own and may not be duplicated without express permission and crediting me as the author.
Chapter 1: The Man at No. 514
The house at 514 Marple Drive was a stylish residence, like its neighbors, with gleaming wrought iron fence and a door of polished brass that gleamed in the sun. Above the door was a small wind-chime that tinkled in the breeze. There was little to differentiate no. 514 from the other houses on Marple Drive, but this; there was no hammock in the backyard, and instead of the customary flag of the Empire there was a smaller flag of green and white.
The man currently renting out no. 514 was a bachelor, and therefore the subject of great speculation by the various other residents. Mrs. Dowelling (no. 521) and Mrs. Hepswich (no. 516) were often discussing him, his employment, and foremost-
“Of what family is he?”
“I shouldn’t care to speculate, I’m sure. He came from Wales, I believe.”
“There are many members of Parliament with summer residences there, if I recall.”
“If he has any such connections, one would think they would visit him. He moved into 514 about a year ago.”
“Your memory is excellent, Mariah.”
“Nonsense. I wouldn’t have remembered, except it was about a week after the Hartsons’ garden party, where Freddy brought that awful monkey.”
“Really? It seems much longer." She cut another slice of cake. “More poppy seed cake, Mariah?”
“Thank you, Grace.”
At no. 514 itself, a very different scene was developing.
To begin with, a young lady was standing on the stoop. She was jolie femme, dressed to the minute in a rich, lilac-striped walking dress, carrying a sturdy reticule. This was no vapid coquette, however. The reticule was clutched in a purposeful, brisk sort of way in her gloved hands. Instead of the normal cunning of the society debutante, there was a lively, disinterested air about her, with no false modesty in her brown eyes.
This apparition would have caused Mariah and Grace (Mrs. Dowelling and Mrs. Hepswich) no end of discussion if observed. Even these ladies, however, might miss the most unusual aspect about the visitor- the caesium watch-locket pinned to her dress, and the gig-strap around her wrist. It might have taken a Parisian to describe the cut and color of her dress, but it would take a physicist to describe the other elements of her attire.
After checking the card in her hand one final time, she pressed the buzzer. After a minute’s pause, she pressed the buzzer again. After another wait of about thirty seconds, she pressed it twice in rapid succession.
The front doorbell rang. Gerhardt sighed and picked himself up, pulling the long gloves off his hands. The ringing continued, several more times between his entering the house and reaching the door. Each peal of the bell sounded more vexed then the last.
“I’m coming,” he called irritably.
Riiing, answered the button tartly.
He flung open the door and said, "Can I help you, or are you merely testing the quality of this damnable apparatus?" As the words left his lips he took in the sight. She drew herself up a little as his eyes swept over her.
Mr. Gerhardt was not a tall man, but he often gave people that impression. He had a lanky frame and a slight stoop, like a stork, and to anyone talking to him it seemed that presently he would unfold to an impressive height. At one point in his career, he had been considered a promising engineer- an above-average student, but the Royal Academy turned out many above-average students. Something that Gerhardt, had he been asked, did not aspire to. For that matter, reflected the girl, neither did she.
Ignoring Gerhardt’s jibe, she interjected, "I beg your pardon, but is this the residence-" and she consulted a small card in her hand, "of James Andronicus Gerhardt, Professor of Extremely Advanced Aerodynamics?"
Gerhardt pulled himself up straight. "Yes, Madam, it is. What can I help you with?"
“I wish to see him. Is he at home?”
“Madame, I am Prof. Gerhardt,” he said, visibly annoyed.
“Really?” she said, regretting it instantly, although the dirty apron, with the creases and smudges, combined with the general disarray of his tie and coif, offered a ready justification.
“I must apologize for my dress. I cannot find any decent help since the last gardener decided that he could not put up with the laboratory cuttings as well.” She looked politely dubious. He added, “Be that as it may, I am here. What can I help you with?”
"You requested my father to send you an assistant."
"I'm sorry. Your father is?"
"Colonel Samuel Marcade."
"Oh! Yes, I..."
"I did send you a note that I was coming. A telegram, in fact."
"Of course! It's been rather busy here, but I did get-"
"Professor Gerhardt, are you going to let me in or shall we converse on the front step all afternoon?” she said calmly.
"No, please do come in." The lady as she walked in gave an appearance of studying his hall. The hall was quite a worthy object in that respect, the dark, yellowing walls being relieved by a successive array of sketches, some mechanical and some of various flora. This monotony of dry learning was broken, at the end, by one oil painting on canvas.
She could not help staring at it, before the professor could usher her into the other room. The theme was hard at first to discover, as there seemed to be a confusion of elements. The scene might have been a seascape or an evening landscape.
“I did hope not to be too intrusive, Professor. On such matters as this it’s so important to have understanding, don’t you think? Quite. In fact, Aunt Caroline protested something fierce, but Father made her see reason.”
“Oh…I agree…” he muttered, still wondering what was going on. He had the telegram halfway out of his pocket when he realized that she was looking at him with the faintly expectant look of one who- he glanced at the clock- had come at tea-time. “Can I offer you a cup of tea, Miss Marcade?”
“Yes, that would be nice.” Her smile was faintly surprised, as if he had just shown the first sign of rational behavior and it took her unexpectedly. She sat back, leaning a little in order to better read the titles on the bookcase. Gerhardt smiled awkwardly back at her, then ducked back into the kitchen.
“By the lightning, what is she here for?” The telegram in his apron had escaped his notice again. He almost slammed down the teacups, turned the teakettle on high, and came close to spilling the tealeaves in the process.
“Ma’am, today is probably not the best day for a call. I realize that your father has probably sent you to bring a report back on the research for that marvelous gig-strap that you brought with you. But it has not been going well at all.” In fact, she knew from the latest letter, that it had been suffering of late. Certain parts had to be sent back to the blacksmith for reforging, the ignition relay burned out every time it was tested, and “You also wrote something about having to keep those rosebushes alive. My father was very curious about the rosebushes, I remember that much. He told me that he did not care for horticulture and had no interest in supporting”- she reached out to steady the tray as he set it down-“in supporting a “a damn rose garden unless it was integral to devising an airship”.”
“In fact, I’m afraid they are,” he said, straightening. “You see-“
Gardening was a badge of wholesome respectability to the residents of Marple Drive, “and that’s something you’re going to need a hell of a lot of if you’re going to be making explosions at 3 am,” the housing agent had told him. “A man can sell his soul, as long as his hands have honest English soil on them.”
“Professor. I do not doubt the respectability of gardening. But surely,” she paused. “Surely, with the means at your disposal, there is no hardship in engaging a gardener to pay attention to the roses?”
“Well, I wish I could reply that there was no hardship whatsoever. Unfortunately, despite the advertisements and amount of time I’ve spent interviewing, so far there’s been no acceptable candidates with good references.” He poured more tea. “I am already behind on time. A visit from the daughter of Colonel Marcade is a welcome distraction, however.”
“I should say, under the circumstances,” she said. “I can see now why Father sent me out here. There’s quite a bit of work to be done.”
“Pardon?”
“As an assistant,” she responded patiently. “I’ll interview the gardeners and find a blacksmith. I used to manage my father’s house, so I have no problem dealing with servants. In the meantime, we can review notes and start the cross-referencing. And plans. My specialty is chemistry and fuel upgrade, but I can build models on the plans for field-testing. Then there’s the lumber…”
He looked at her. Isabella fell silent. She had been too forward, as usual. He hadn’t even said whether or not he had looked at her references. He was clearly about to say something important, to clarify her position. She held her breath.
“Madam, I…What?”
Chapter 1: The Man at No. 514
The house at 514 Marple Drive was a stylish residence, like its neighbors, with gleaming wrought iron fence and a door of polished brass that gleamed in the sun. Above the door was a small wind-chime that tinkled in the breeze. There was little to differentiate no. 514 from the other houses on Marple Drive, but this; there was no hammock in the backyard, and instead of the customary flag of the Empire there was a smaller flag of green and white.
The man currently renting out no. 514 was a bachelor, and therefore the subject of great speculation by the various other residents. Mrs. Dowelling (no. 521) and Mrs. Hepswich (no. 516) were often discussing him, his employment, and foremost-
“Of what family is he?”
“I shouldn’t care to speculate, I’m sure. He came from Wales, I believe.”
“There are many members of Parliament with summer residences there, if I recall.”
“If he has any such connections, one would think they would visit him. He moved into 514 about a year ago.”
“Your memory is excellent, Mariah.”
“Nonsense. I wouldn’t have remembered, except it was about a week after the Hartsons’ garden party, where Freddy brought that awful monkey.”
“Really? It seems much longer." She cut another slice of cake. “More poppy seed cake, Mariah?”
“Thank you, Grace.”
At no. 514 itself, a very different scene was developing.
To begin with, a young lady was standing on the stoop. She was jolie femme, dressed to the minute in a rich, lilac-striped walking dress, carrying a sturdy reticule. This was no vapid coquette, however. The reticule was clutched in a purposeful, brisk sort of way in her gloved hands. Instead of the normal cunning of the society debutante, there was a lively, disinterested air about her, with no false modesty in her brown eyes.
This apparition would have caused Mariah and Grace (Mrs. Dowelling and Mrs. Hepswich) no end of discussion if observed. Even these ladies, however, might miss the most unusual aspect about the visitor- the caesium watch-locket pinned to her dress, and the gig-strap around her wrist. It might have taken a Parisian to describe the cut and color of her dress, but it would take a physicist to describe the other elements of her attire.
After checking the card in her hand one final time, she pressed the buzzer. After a minute’s pause, she pressed the buzzer again. After another wait of about thirty seconds, she pressed it twice in rapid succession.
The front doorbell rang. Gerhardt sighed and picked himself up, pulling the long gloves off his hands. The ringing continued, several more times between his entering the house and reaching the door. Each peal of the bell sounded more vexed then the last.
“I’m coming,” he called irritably.
Riiing, answered the button tartly.
He flung open the door and said, "Can I help you, or are you merely testing the quality of this damnable apparatus?" As the words left his lips he took in the sight. She drew herself up a little as his eyes swept over her.
Mr. Gerhardt was not a tall man, but he often gave people that impression. He had a lanky frame and a slight stoop, like a stork, and to anyone talking to him it seemed that presently he would unfold to an impressive height. At one point in his career, he had been considered a promising engineer- an above-average student, but the Royal Academy turned out many above-average students. Something that Gerhardt, had he been asked, did not aspire to. For that matter, reflected the girl, neither did she.
Ignoring Gerhardt’s jibe, she interjected, "I beg your pardon, but is this the residence-" and she consulted a small card in her hand, "of James Andronicus Gerhardt, Professor of Extremely Advanced Aerodynamics?"
Gerhardt pulled himself up straight. "Yes, Madam, it is. What can I help you with?"
“I wish to see him. Is he at home?”
“Madame, I am Prof. Gerhardt,” he said, visibly annoyed.
“Really?” she said, regretting it instantly, although the dirty apron, with the creases and smudges, combined with the general disarray of his tie and coif, offered a ready justification.
“I must apologize for my dress. I cannot find any decent help since the last gardener decided that he could not put up with the laboratory cuttings as well.” She looked politely dubious. He added, “Be that as it may, I am here. What can I help you with?”
"You requested my father to send you an assistant."
"I'm sorry. Your father is?"
"Colonel Samuel Marcade."
"Oh! Yes, I..."
"I did send you a note that I was coming. A telegram, in fact."
"Of course! It's been rather busy here, but I did get-"
"Professor Gerhardt, are you going to let me in or shall we converse on the front step all afternoon?” she said calmly.
"No, please do come in." The lady as she walked in gave an appearance of studying his hall. The hall was quite a worthy object in that respect, the dark, yellowing walls being relieved by a successive array of sketches, some mechanical and some of various flora. This monotony of dry learning was broken, at the end, by one oil painting on canvas.
She could not help staring at it, before the professor could usher her into the other room. The theme was hard at first to discover, as there seemed to be a confusion of elements. The scene might have been a seascape or an evening landscape.
“I did hope not to be too intrusive, Professor. On such matters as this it’s so important to have understanding, don’t you think? Quite. In fact, Aunt Caroline protested something fierce, but Father made her see reason.”
“Oh…I agree…” he muttered, still wondering what was going on. He had the telegram halfway out of his pocket when he realized that she was looking at him with the faintly expectant look of one who- he glanced at the clock- had come at tea-time. “Can I offer you a cup of tea, Miss Marcade?”
“Yes, that would be nice.” Her smile was faintly surprised, as if he had just shown the first sign of rational behavior and it took her unexpectedly. She sat back, leaning a little in order to better read the titles on the bookcase. Gerhardt smiled awkwardly back at her, then ducked back into the kitchen.
“By the lightning, what is she here for?” The telegram in his apron had escaped his notice again. He almost slammed down the teacups, turned the teakettle on high, and came close to spilling the tealeaves in the process.
“Ma’am, today is probably not the best day for a call. I realize that your father has probably sent you to bring a report back on the research for that marvelous gig-strap that you brought with you. But it has not been going well at all.” In fact, she knew from the latest letter, that it had been suffering of late. Certain parts had to be sent back to the blacksmith for reforging, the ignition relay burned out every time it was tested, and “You also wrote something about having to keep those rosebushes alive. My father was very curious about the rosebushes, I remember that much. He told me that he did not care for horticulture and had no interest in supporting”- she reached out to steady the tray as he set it down-“in supporting a “a damn rose garden unless it was integral to devising an airship”.”
“In fact, I’m afraid they are,” he said, straightening. “You see-“
Gardening was a badge of wholesome respectability to the residents of Marple Drive, “and that’s something you’re going to need a hell of a lot of if you’re going to be making explosions at 3 am,” the housing agent had told him. “A man can sell his soul, as long as his hands have honest English soil on them.”
“Professor. I do not doubt the respectability of gardening. But surely,” she paused. “Surely, with the means at your disposal, there is no hardship in engaging a gardener to pay attention to the roses?”
“Well, I wish I could reply that there was no hardship whatsoever. Unfortunately, despite the advertisements and amount of time I’ve spent interviewing, so far there’s been no acceptable candidates with good references.” He poured more tea. “I am already behind on time. A visit from the daughter of Colonel Marcade is a welcome distraction, however.”
“I should say, under the circumstances,” she said. “I can see now why Father sent me out here. There’s quite a bit of work to be done.”
“Pardon?”
“As an assistant,” she responded patiently. “I’ll interview the gardeners and find a blacksmith. I used to manage my father’s house, so I have no problem dealing with servants. In the meantime, we can review notes and start the cross-referencing. And plans. My specialty is chemistry and fuel upgrade, but I can build models on the plans for field-testing. Then there’s the lumber…”
He looked at her. Isabella fell silent. She had been too forward, as usual. He hadn’t even said whether or not he had looked at her references. He was clearly about to say something important, to clarify her position. She held her breath.
“Madam, I…What?”
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