29 October, 2005

End's Beginning

...feed it to the vultures, there's a lot of them out there....


We drive in, dreading mucky grounds again. The rain has returned.

I loathe this weather. I do. My official face is one of acceptance, but truly, I detest grey dreary days, when I do little more than make tea, sit near my SunBox and eat comfort food in a mostly futile attempt to protect my fragile mental health from something as impersonal as the goddamn weather.

Two vultures sulk beneath an ornamental tree. I think they are ours. They should be on our parking lot, foraging for leftover turkey legs. They loathe this weather also. The lot is messy, but the rain eases off. It does not matter. I am still sulking, like the vultures. I am not permitted to do my show today, and fire is so pretty on grey heavy air.

There was an 'incident' last week. This is not what really happened.

And neither is this.

I don't know WHAT really happened. I wasn't there; I didn't see it.

But for those of you who worried, please be assured that I was not involved.

What is true is that the festival was slapped with a 'cease and desist' for fire, and without fire, I gots nuttin'. This is the explaination for why Mimi Flambe did not occur as scheduled on the final festival weekend.

The media, vultures that they are, make much of this 'dangerous stunt.' Must be a slow week for real news.

Fluffy and I make magic instead of doing our show. With the perfectly ordinary ingredients of soap and water (though I believe there is non-coincidental symbolism in the fact that the brand Joy has always worked best for us) we create gorgeous rainbow spheres, metaphoric in their transience. We engage boot-and-poncho clad families in a non-destructive game: blow beneath the bubble until it lifts and floats away. Gently, now: when these four-foot beauties burst, they dump a drenching amount of soapy water on the offender. The children find the right breath. The adults join in. The bubble is passed from one to another above the heads of several people before an updraft catches it and pulls it away over shingled rooftops.

The humans stand quietly, watching. Magic, I say.

While on stilts, I find a young man with a short haircut. I rub his head with my gloved palm. He does not object. His friends are amused, and take pictures. I lean down and stroke the underside of my chin across the crown of his soft head. His friends laugh at my blissful expression. And then the young man begins to purr.


That Girl has jumped all over the Ministry of Silly Walks concept, the one that permits white-faced pantos in absurdist pseudo-Tudor costuming to walk in a goofy way for no apparent reason. We carry candy in wooden bowls offering it to patrons. "Candy from strangers?" asks one teen of a bevy of cronies. "Gotta do it," responds another. The candy is color-coordinated to match our costumes.

We silly-walk to the Wine Garden and are invited to feast. Some Designated Patrons have brought a fancy spread, and share roast pork, cheeses, and brownies with us. We sample wine: I, two or three; she, six or seven.

Off to Rob Piland's jewelry booth, where Amy has gifts. "I give this to you with heartfelt thanks, deep gratitude, and honor. Your brave deed was entertaining and gratifying, and has become legendary. And so, I present this to you." She hands me a rose. Attached to it is a pewter badge that reads: "Don't Mess With the Mime!"

I cook supper and hear Martin vocalizing in the shower. Ah, yesssss. The cure for damp and drear is hot steamy water and plenty of it, and a warm meal that follows.

Has it been raining? I suppose it has. It's been a good day anyway.

(Play On; Crack the Sky)

25 October, 2005

Non- Post...

I realize I am long overdue. Apologies. I have too much to say to be able to be brief; I'd go on forever. Much better to craft something somwhat better than disjointed rambling. Soon, soon, I promise....

(Life. Don't talk to me about life.)

13 October, 2005

One More

...wings to fly above the clouds (above the clouds)....

Axiom: If you're sober enough to be troubled by the cold discomfort of the bathroom floor, it's probably safe to go to bed.


It's nice to hear that my favorite bar owner has missed me, since I'm neither a frequent visitor nor a copious consumer, so therefore professionally unmemorable.
It's good to see the bald dude, but it doesn't require more than a few moments. However, quick-minded entertaining people who are free of the aaaaahhhctor double blade of ego and insecurity can keep me occupied for hours.

"Let's do vodka shots," says W., ever friendly and charming. Okay. She brings them, accompanied by sugar-coated lemons.

Do NOT let me have another of these.

"No, just one. Salud!"

Drink the vodka. Bite the lemon. Yummy. It won't hit 'til later, the feeling of having consumed an alcoholic beverage. But the notion of invincibility, as though I can drink as if I were 6'2" and 220 lbs. is instantaneous. I have much more fun than I bargained for, listening to the jukebox, drinking tiny Miller Lites and losing at pool. I restrain myself from biting W.'s tender neck, as her fiancee is present. I content myself with running one fingernail along it. I only came in for a beer.


I plunk down on a barstool, one eye on baseball and one on the new beertender. His name is Mike. He gives me the bad news about the Ravens game. It's been a weird weekend. I need this beer.


"Cybele? I'm not coming in on Monday, after all. I'm coming in tonight."

Really? What time, do you think?

"Well, like, now."

Come on, then. Young Evan will lurk in my basement until I clear the guestroom. Hilby and Martin won't arrive until Friday anyway.

Axiom: If you park your car somewhere other than where you usually park it, it will be dark when you go to look for it.


Larry's reassuring presence keeps me from parking lot panic. The rain has caused large-scale adjustments in our parking patterns.

"Is that it?"

No, we're looking for dark green. Right. On an unlit lot.

"Oh, a Cherokee-type. I thought we were looking for a JEEP Jeep."

Yeah. And we would be, if the Jeep were mine. But it's not, so here we are on a black and crowded waterlogged lot, looking for the BoringMobile.


I am incognito, out of makeup, in mufti. I order coffee and drink it from an aluminum travel mug. I make a call on my cell phone. I refrain from making faces at patrons. I talk to Sandy as she braids my hair. All of this is so strange to me. I keep waiting for someone to call me out: "HEY! Aren't you that mime?" No one does.


"This group of high school students arrived and started singing at the Globe stage."


"Well, they apparantly had called the entertainment director, asked if they could perform, been told 'No' and then showed up anyway."

They crashed the Globe?

"Yeah, they did. 'No one else is performing here right now', they said."

They crashed the Globe. Brilliant.


I am greeted by cheers and congratulations. People thank me for a good laugh, a good story. I am the village hero of the moment. I'm embarassed, as I was ashamed to have lost my temper. And yet, when the collective loveliness of the moccasin booth stands to applaud, I take a bow.


"Oh, it was mad, people being taken away in cuffs and everything."

"They arrived drunk. Justin found beer cans on the parking lot."

"Did you hear about the girls mud wrestling?"


"Well, after they pushed over the privy..."


"Yeah, it's from a movie, I never saw it, but....anyway, they push over the privy with some guy in it, I think they knew him..."

Holy shit.

"Exactly, and these girls went through the hole that was made in the privy wall to the area behind the joust, you know?"

Idiots. And then they start...

"Right, wrestling in the mud, throwing it at each other, except it wasn't mud."

Holy shit.

"Yep. They were flinging horse poo."

Axiom: When there is an Us vs. Them mentality, heroism is defined by one of Us getting some of our own back from Them.


It's been raining on and off all day, mostly on. Patrons have arrived anyhow, some few intrepids willing to drip and slog. That Girl and I have been dashing colorfully from shop to shop and blowing bubbles through our fingers. We carry buckets and rags, and we pause between booths, deciding where to go next. Suddenly, a loud voice roars in my ear, frightening a scream from me. That Girl, startled, looks at someone behind me. I turn. A young man in a striped shirt is dodging away.

Shocked silence falls on this sector of the village. I feel expectation in the air. Will Mimi let this pass? She will not. She must not.

I turn to face my attacker, nearly blind with indignation, and douse him with the contents of my bubble bucket. Still furious, I stalk away to wild cheering from the booth workers.


Ugh. It's raining. I roll over, wrapping myself in the covers before flinging them back to face the world. I have done this before. We can do this again. We will manage to be bright spots of color against the grey drab. I don't even mind getting my feet wet.

It's wet socks I can't stand.

Fast forward:

Early Monday morning, I look at myself in the mirror.

Axiom: No matter what sensible, sober, hairdo protective reason you had for doing it the night before, it still feels incredibly stupid to wake with a pair of pantyhose tied to your head.

(Windy; The Association)

11 October, 2005

Tonight On Fox

...mime goes wild, attacks patron....

The stories you have heard are not all true.

You won't get the truth from me, either.

Not tonight, anyway.

In the meantime, if anyone's interested, on Wednesday October 12th at 7:30 PM, I'm reading poetry (yes, mine) at the Cafe Beaux Arts inside Maryland Hall in Annapolis.

I'll probably wear a beret.

07 October, 2005

Time's Short...

...we all have time enough to die....

He, usually reserved, reaches for me, a hug goodbye. Odd, and yet....


"What's the good word?"



The good word. You asked what it was. It's 'yes'. 'Yes' is the good word, and it's my favorite.

To no-one's surprise, I'm sure.


There are three Renaissance Festival weekends left. If you haven't been yet, hurry.

(Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?; Chicago)

05 October, 2005

Related Images

...the sky is grey/ I've been for a walk....

The sky is a stormy sea. Foamy clouds twist and writhe. A lady walks to her car, prim in working woman skirt and shoes. Her perfume washes over me, carried by breeze that churns leaves and branches into green froth.

Airborne, an ordinary squirrel becomes a flying one, in a startled leap from fence rail to a tree just out of reach. And yet it clings to the bark after all, remains still a moment, stunned, before scampering spiral up into sheltering leaves. The squirrels have gone mad, maaaaaad. They taunt and tease and dart and dash. The Questing Sniff tugs my joints askew. He thinks he can climb trees to catch these furry impertinents. The leash bites my hand, burns my wrist as it lightning snakes, following frenzied dog.

That Girl has given me a bit of Brie, and I sit in a haze of leg-filled dust that is at this moment my stage. The Brie is amazing. I close my eyes, for I hold the ocean in my mouth. Rattle of drying leaves becomes roar of surf, and high-pitched excited voices become sharp seagull cries. The briny cheese melts away, and the vision fades. I open my eyes.

She's watching my face.

Silently, she snickers, points a finger, does a mocking mimic of ecstasy.

And offers me more Brie.

Life is good.

(California Dreamin'; The Mamas and the Papas)