Third weekend was Labor Day weekend. So THREE days in a row of the funny accent and attempting to make prolonged eye contact with strangers. Saturday morning had the best surprise, though: my best friend and co-director arranged for a former troupe member to play with us as a cast member for the weekend. He lives out of state with his wife, but drove up with his mom and got a paper pass and brought his old costume....I may have been a little excited to see him.
...ok, I was 200% excited to see him. He participated in so many great shows and bits and memories that I dearly treasure. He jumped into crazy ideas with both feet and had no fear of being silly wherever we were. He and my best friend had *killer* rapport, they worked together like a wild, loud, violent, hilarious machine. When I espied him Saturday morning, I may have frightened him with my enthusiasm. I'm just proud that I didn't cry all over him. Throughout the day, I loved each time a person's face lit up when they recognized him.
So I enjoyed the HELL out of Saturday and Sunday. We demonstrated the game-play for the bocce ball tournaments, throwing actors across the green as the balls (with minimal injury). We also helped wrangle the spaghetti-eating contests, which involved wrapping grown men, small children, and the occasional ambitious woman in plastic ponchos and shouting at them to eat mooshy spaghetti without utensils or hands. We got to keep the extra spaghetti. That played quite well as a second lunch at the Arbor stage. Still no forks, but we made do. By the third day of contest leftovers, though, we were pretty sick of anything cold and noodly. We fed random cast members backstage, instead.
Saturday night I lost a fight with a bench. The balloon-fencing tournament at the fencing booth had drawn its usual large crowd. People had dragged benches over from surrounding areas, and, of course, left them there. When I tripped over one as I turned around, I was just drunk enough that I couldn't catch my balance, and just sober enough to discover exactly what it feels like to land on your face. It feels flat and scratchy. I don't recommend it.
Sunday night was busier in the public tent, as expected. Fortunately, my former troupe guy made plans to stay after hours to hang out with us. "Us" were performers from all across the range of cast, sharing dirty (and stupid) jokes and stories of our days. It was the perfect set up of friends for me to actually enjoy being in the midst of such a crowd of people.
Then I tried to eat a chocolate eyeball without taking off the wrapper. Good times.
Monday, September 11, 2017
Monday, August 21, 2017
Renaissance Renaissance: Week 1
To start, a little exposition: For the 2016 Renaissance Festival season, I played a solo street character. A French Marquess named Jaqueline. It was the worst season of my entire fest attendance. Worse than even that day when I was 12 and we had to leave early because it was raining. Worse than a few years ago when I salved my lonely heart with entirely too much whiskey. Last year I learned that I am unable to interact with patrons alone.
I did achieve what I had set out to do by taking a year away from the commedia troupe: try to develop a character from scratch and independently entertain on street. I tried. I failed. Although, I did learn a lot. Mostly that I never want to do that again. But other things, too, perhaps described in a future post.
Beginning rehearsals for the 2017 season was exciting back in with i Arroganti commedia troupe. Co-directing with my best friend, we planned a new scripted show, bought new masks, and I started to get to know the other members she had hired last year. We had our cart-stage fixed up. Unfortunately, my costume wasn't ready for Opening Day, par for the course. I dug enough old pieces out to ensure I caused no scandal, and off we went!
Saturday was gorgeous. The weather was perfectly temperate after the morning rainclouds passed over. I laughed more than I have since I can remember. I performed with my boyfriend as team "Ginger Minge" for Vilification Tennis. This is his first year on the cast, and I was so proud to stand on the stage with him because he is funny as *hell*. I ate my first spicy pickle of the year. I hugged lots of friends. We went fishing for mermaids, using swedish fish gummies for bait. We helped Antonia the Painter graffiti the King's Arbor. We sang "I'm on a Castle" on top of the front gate. At the end of the day, I was exhausted. Which is exactly the goal. It was amazing.
The first Saturday of the season is always ushered in that evening by the Morris Men's procession. They perform the Abbots Bromley Horn dance; a ritualistic, solemn dance of fertility in a path around the whole site. In white garb--but no bells--six men parade in a single line over their wandering path. Then walks members dressed to represent traditional archetypes: Maid Marian, the Hobby Horse, the Fool, the Archer, and the Youth. Their musician trails behind them with his concertina, playing a haunting, loping melody accented by the soft clicking of antlers, sporadic knocking of arrow on bow, and the light chime of the Youth's triangle.
I walked into the night and joined the silent clump of audience who trail behind the procession. Observing the dance is a ritual, as well. For me, mourning the dead has also become tradition of watching the Morris. Earlier this year, a friend died in a random, reckless car accident. His life was cut so very short, so very suddenly. He was a former member of my troupe, and a current member of the Morris Men. He was a spotter for the stilt-walkers. He was a Peace Corps alumni. He was a developing star of the local burlesque community. He was a beautiful, joyful, generous, sweetheart who should never have left this world so violently. And I miss him every day. So I followed the Morris Men and wept. I followed their dim shapes in the night, heard the antlers, heard the song, and poured my love out from my eyes onto the ground. The festival grounds have soaked up so many of my tears. After they left the site, I drank my whiskey alone and went to bed.
I had a hard time scraping up enough energy for Sunday. It seems like everyone did, though, because attendance was light. The humidity was oppressive. We only performed one show, where the audience gradually drifted away until Act 3 was presented to nothing but our congregated benches. It was still a good day, though. My best friend and I ate bowls full of tiny pancakes. Another member of my troupe helped me steal a roll of wedding bunting that was left unattended. We unrolled it and ran around with a streamer of white flying behind us. Then we rolled it back up and tucked it away nicely because we are polite fools. I performed Vilification again with my boyfriend, and I didn't even write crib notes on my hand to help me remember my insults. We took the Prince to see the final show for the year by Sak Theatre, a legendary troupe celebrating its 40th year. We had a picnic by the front gate. I hugged more friends and pet their dogs. We *finally* got ice cream cones. We got wet, but stayed at the front gate anyway. We packed up the cart and went home.
It was a sweet relief to fall back into the troupe routine this year. I know where I belong! That was the first weekend in a few years where I felt like I had come home.
I did achieve what I had set out to do by taking a year away from the commedia troupe: try to develop a character from scratch and independently entertain on street. I tried. I failed. Although, I did learn a lot. Mostly that I never want to do that again. But other things, too, perhaps described in a future post.
Beginning rehearsals for the 2017 season was exciting back in with i Arroganti commedia troupe. Co-directing with my best friend, we planned a new scripted show, bought new masks, and I started to get to know the other members she had hired last year. We had our cart-stage fixed up. Unfortunately, my costume wasn't ready for Opening Day, par for the course. I dug enough old pieces out to ensure I caused no scandal, and off we went!
Saturday was gorgeous. The weather was perfectly temperate after the morning rainclouds passed over. I laughed more than I have since I can remember. I performed with my boyfriend as team "Ginger Minge" for Vilification Tennis. This is his first year on the cast, and I was so proud to stand on the stage with him because he is funny as *hell*. I ate my first spicy pickle of the year. I hugged lots of friends. We went fishing for mermaids, using swedish fish gummies for bait. We helped Antonia the Painter graffiti the King's Arbor. We sang "I'm on a Castle" on top of the front gate. At the end of the day, I was exhausted. Which is exactly the goal. It was amazing.
The first Saturday of the season is always ushered in that evening by the Morris Men's procession. They perform the Abbots Bromley Horn dance; a ritualistic, solemn dance of fertility in a path around the whole site. In white garb--but no bells--six men parade in a single line over their wandering path. Then walks members dressed to represent traditional archetypes: Maid Marian, the Hobby Horse, the Fool, the Archer, and the Youth. Their musician trails behind them with his concertina, playing a haunting, loping melody accented by the soft clicking of antlers, sporadic knocking of arrow on bow, and the light chime of the Youth's triangle.
I walked into the night and joined the silent clump of audience who trail behind the procession. Observing the dance is a ritual, as well. For me, mourning the dead has also become tradition of watching the Morris. Earlier this year, a friend died in a random, reckless car accident. His life was cut so very short, so very suddenly. He was a former member of my troupe, and a current member of the Morris Men. He was a spotter for the stilt-walkers. He was a Peace Corps alumni. He was a developing star of the local burlesque community. He was a beautiful, joyful, generous, sweetheart who should never have left this world so violently. And I miss him every day. So I followed the Morris Men and wept. I followed their dim shapes in the night, heard the antlers, heard the song, and poured my love out from my eyes onto the ground. The festival grounds have soaked up so many of my tears. After they left the site, I drank my whiskey alone and went to bed.
I had a hard time scraping up enough energy for Sunday. It seems like everyone did, though, because attendance was light. The humidity was oppressive. We only performed one show, where the audience gradually drifted away until Act 3 was presented to nothing but our congregated benches. It was still a good day, though. My best friend and I ate bowls full of tiny pancakes. Another member of my troupe helped me steal a roll of wedding bunting that was left unattended. We unrolled it and ran around with a streamer of white flying behind us. Then we rolled it back up and tucked it away nicely because we are polite fools. I performed Vilification again with my boyfriend, and I didn't even write crib notes on my hand to help me remember my insults. We took the Prince to see the final show for the year by Sak Theatre, a legendary troupe celebrating its 40th year. We had a picnic by the front gate. I hugged more friends and pet their dogs. We *finally* got ice cream cones. We got wet, but stayed at the front gate anyway. We packed up the cart and went home.
It was a sweet relief to fall back into the troupe routine this year. I know where I belong! That was the first weekend in a few years where I felt like I had come home.
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