The Wooden Match
I wonder if “The Late Age of Print” somehow misses the point (if not by much): maybe this is The Late Age of Text?
I look across the Lehigh Canal (now a scenic walk/run) at the Ice House (a performance space) and across the Lehigh itself at the Riverport (a shopping/dining/fitnessCenter/parkingGarage), and further west on the far shore at the Banana Factory (an arts center). The restaurant upon whose deserted patio I sit &scribble these volatile observations, erstwhile known as The Depot, before that was the Bethlehem train station, and even though “The Steel” has long since shut down (only to reopen as a casino), the tracks laid right beside this picnic table still run real live trains — I can hear them in the night, and in fact there’s a locomotive snorting and hissing right behind me, and it just loaded up a couple men with backpacks & suitcases — long haul, must be.
Not sure how to make my point.
Text overlays the world we see and otherwise sense with another world, a world more real in its grip on us than the world apprehended by our senses: indeed, when we say “Welcome to the Real World, Kid,” (meaning “Get REAL, you clueless twit!), we’re NEVER referring to the world apprehended by our senses, but rather the world comprehended by text — a thoroughly Perpetrated World.
But when the Ice House houses no ice, nor does the Banana Factory manufacture bananas, *where* the fuck *are* we?