The day is grey again- I hate this weather, not because I hate what the weather is, but because I hate what it does to me. A mere two rainy days in a row can throw me into a blue funk that lasts until the sun comes back, which sometimes takes a week or more. I hate to be that fragile, but there it is. I expect the red bra and pants I don under my black clothes will make me feel better. Disappointingly, they don’t.
Isn't that funny, though? The weather itself doesn't bug me: it's what the weather does to me.
Because it's all about me, isn't it? Except when it's not.
Depressive weather requires a different perspective on intimate topics. Here, I find the 'she-said' version of my affectionate assault of an unsuspecting teen.
Monday October 2 2006
Mom had given me a little note thing to give to one of her old friends, Cybele, a mime. Her picture was in the flyer that had been sent in the mail, so I knew what mimes to look out for. So while we were eating, I saw them, & ran up, asking which of them was Mrs. Cybele. The other lady pointed, & I said I had something from my mom. She took the little thing, saw mom's name, & her mouth dropped. Then she gave me the biggest, firmest hug ever.
Being a mime, she of course couldn’t speak, but it definitely seemed an "oh em gee" moment.She looked like she was going to cry. She kissed me on the cheeks & hugged me again, & pressed her hand over her heart, blinking rapidly. She pulled me back & looked me up & down, & bowed as saying 'thank you." I bowed back. One of the other mimes had wandered off, probably thinking, "Awkward!" Mrs. Cybele whistled & stamped her foot & he came back. She put a hand on his shoulder & on the head of the littlest mime, then pressed a hand over her heart. (Now that I think of it, they must've felt awkward, like, "Mom... are you ok...?") I asked if they wanted me to take their picture, & they nodded. Janna had come up behind me, & we said goodbye. They waved & took hold of each other's long hats once more & moved off. Janna commented on how we had gotten quiet, too. It just feels odd talking to a mime; it feels like you ought to communicate silently, too.
And a patron I did not meet makes no mention of me, but gives an excruciatingly detailed account of waiting in traffic; here he is, lads and ladies, Hotspur.
After being directed to park in the back forty (and literally, this WAS the back forty-- I heard they shut the gates on Sunday because the parking lot got full up), we trudged for what seems like forever to get into the faire. Drey had tickets for us.. Huzzzah! I essayed, feebly! The first thing you notice about the Ren Faire is people. People in funny outfits. Tourists, milling about. In vast numbers.
And again. This time, with stilty-mimey folk.
Vast numbers? Pfah, you have no idea. This past Saturday, 25,000 people and then some enter our gates, form long lines for food, and fill the joust arena to capacity. That's vast numbers.
It was cold, too! We are glad of our two cloaks apiece, for sure, and take every opportunity to sit in the sun. Around about two-thirty, finally, after my second hour on stilts, I break my first sweat of the day.
From AutumnCat’s photo site:
the Mime Smooch
Thank you for the kind comments, but actually, the makeup makes me beautiful. WIthout it, I am pedestrian, mundane, uninteresting and common.
Here’s one of my baby Lili, which might be better, even, in black and white.
Another sweet one of Lili and a bubble, and one of the white and gold, just me.
"You're not chopped liver," he says, and hands me a white rose emblazoned with my face. He calls himself the White Dragon, but this seems like the sweet gesture of a white knight.
A young woman seeks me out, finds me because I am not only bright pink, but nearly nine feet tall. "You held my oldest daughter, and we got a picture. This," she says, indicating the baby she holds, "is my new daughter. Would you hold her so we can get another picture?" I nod agreement. "You won't run off with her, will you?" She laughs.
Are you kidding? After a challenge like that? Of course I will. After she snaps the shot, I turn the baby sideways under one arm and take three swift strides in the opposite direction, to the delight of the crowd.
"Give back my baby!" she cries, running after me. "Oh, please, give back my baby!" There is real distress in her voice. Well, lady, you gave her to me. I demand a kiss from her, and hand over the pink-clad oblivious mass of flesh. This is not that baby, but it’s a good shot, again from David Davidson.
A patron wants to pay me to teach her clown makeup technique, which I will do, if she insists. I guess when you’ve done it twenty years or more, it’s easy, and when you’ve never ever done it, it’s not.
Hilby has remembered his face cream this time, but left a hairbrush and a razor. I’m sure I ll find traces of ‘the boys’ for weeks and months to come.
A strange sort of consolation prize after they’ve gone for the season. Which ends after this weekend.
Two more days... I'll pack in my joy, before I pack up my Joy, my powder, my kneepads...
(Blue Morning, Blue Day; Foreigner)