The Faeriepunk Manifesto
"Can you wonder that the People of the Hills don't care to be confused with that painty-winged, wand-waving, sugar-and-shake-your-head set of impostors? Butterfly wings, indeed!" -- Puck in Puck of Pook's Hill, Rudyard Kipling
WE ARE ALIVE! We are the pastel goths giggling at the staring, the madwomen and men running barefoot and feral and joyous, the gentle poets consumed by visions and drunk on stars, the socially awkward children covered in glitter and chiffon scraps. We are the fae, the changelings, the mortals who believe in them, and the strange half-breeds in between. We are faeriepunks, and we are stealing back the faerie identity and healing it from the mutilation done by Victorians, the love-and-fluff whitelighters, the Disney Corporation, and all else who would lessen the wild wonder and dangerous magics of Faerie by making it palatable, merchandisable, and 'nice'.
We realise that magic is not all light and love, even when it is so sparkly you want to vomit (which, incidentally, is the whole point). We recognise that the fae are not and never will be tame, nor creatures that can or will be bent to mortal wills. We know the world beyond the veils can be fiercely beautiful, but also absolutely perilous. We recognise that with otherworldly beauty comes danger, and instead of painting over that danger with butterfly wings and rose petals, we embrace it in all its possible savagery, feral beauty, and utter majesty. We honour that soft strain of music just on the edge of your hearing. The glint of light off the edge of an arrow of elfshot. The play of the full moon's reflection on a deceptively still lake. The light flashing in the corner of your eye. The delicious thrill of fear. The unchecked, crazed joy as you spin through the unexpected eucatastrophe. Therein lies real life.
We are very, very aware that a faerie has never, and would never, say "kubiando". They may very well say "go fuck yourself", though.
the manifesto :: what is it? :: what is it NOT? :: tenets :: tell the world