William Gibson writes expertly and intuitively about subcultures, as an author must when all his books involve the muddling up of these secret layers in the Great North American Culture. But the mixing of subcultures doesn’t happen very often in real life – at least, it doesn’t happen often to me. I don’t spend time with interesting criminals or artists or goths because, well, their way of living makes me uncomfortable and it’s hard to push me out of my comfort zone. But I read Gibson’s books and I enjoy the tentative awkwardness of those first meetings – the first time a homeless girl gets mixed up with an international conspiracy; the first time a Japanese orphan ends up in the robot killing fields; and of course that priceless moment in the Hyatt where Case first meets Armitage and you can almost hear the hard edges of suicidal poverty poking up against that soft, fragrant bubble of money and security. (I love that scene. I’ve read ‘Neuromancer’ a hundred times and I still squirm at that scene.)
Why all the talk about subcultures? I don’t know. It must be that effing anthropology class the department forced me to take. But mainly, I think, it’s because sometimes the internet lets you brush up softly against these people and instead of fear or disdain, you feel an uncontrollable thrill of envy. That happened to me when I came across this site. I can’t join these people; I can barely admire their work in silence, from across the globe. I can wish I was as bold and creative and frankly underground as they are. And I can certainly start thinking harder about the way I live my life, innocent and dumb, in the mainstream.
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