...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)