Harp and Chess at the Faire

The Pearwood Pipers, the recorder ensemble and madrigal group I used to sing with, let me guard their pavilion while they played a gig.  

One of the props that they have is a large wooden chess set.  I set that up in front of me.  Then I pulled out a hidden bottle of soda, poured it into a ceramic goblet, and sipped it while I strummed my harp.  Under the pavilion's shade, I felt like an errant squire in an Arthurian adventure.

I was surprised at how many folks came up to learn chess or about the harp.  I played a game of Queen and Pawns with a five-year-old, and I taught a twenty-something the other pieces.  What felt like a home-school family came up and spoke with me about the harp and its tuning.

Then the Pearwoods came back with some other musician friends and began a jam session.

Gaol Theatre at Shrewsbury

Shrewsbury was fun this year.  One of the acts there was a group from Washington called "The Hangman's Acre," who put folks into gaol cells on trumped-up charges.  After some theatrical taunting, the accused could get out if they did something silly (some folks had to sing "I'm a little teapot," one young boy had to dance like a pretty ballerina).

The Child decided he wanted to be locked up--mostly, I think, for the experience of being able to bribe his way out of jail--so he took his money, marched up to the gaolers, and began to tell them he wanted to be locked up.   This was outside their script, and some slightly confused gaolers shook their heads to clear them, then looked around for the parents.

We laughed and I walked up and came up with the charges of "belching at the breakfast table and extreme flatulence" while Mark and The Child wandered off to be caught.  Once the paperwork was done, the Chief Gaoler and I were off to clap the miscreant into the clink.

Apparently, near the jousting area,  The Child was having some second thoughts.  "Here, Mark," he said, "You take my cloak and wear it; that way they won't know who I am."  But we found them.

The Chief Gaoler made sure The Child wasn't too freaked out, and then went into theatrics, reading the warrant, and then marching him off the the gaol, with many cries of "Make way for a most terrible criminal!"  Mark and I followed, with cries of "Baby-sitting!" which were quickly denied by the Chief Gaoler.

The Child was put into a cell--it didn't really lock, I think it closed magnetically--the charges against him were read and then spiked to the front of the cell.

He was encouraged to use the soap in the cell, and the Chief Gaoler did some more Gaol-Theatre.   I caught The Child's eyes and patted my pockets significantly, and he remembered that he had a bribe to give the Gaoler.

"Wait!" The Gaoler said, "The charges have been dropped.  This child is pure as the driven snow!"

We protested and argued a little with him, but The Child was freed.

The Gaoler leaned forward and said, "Congratulations, my boy; you'll go far in life."

Shrewsbury Musings

I'm back from the Shrewsbury Renaissance Faire.  Whew, all I did was lead the opening and closing parades, and I'm still sore and tired Monday Morning.  Note to Self: use a tabor with a beater instead of a dumbec when drumming to save your hands.

I was pleased, perplexed, and grateful to be able to bring my style of energy to the event.

Saturday, I rose early, and was pulling out of the driveway about quarter to six to head to the Faire.  The sky was purpling in the east and Venus dazzled a dark sky.  As I drove, the sky lightened, and  stray wisps of fog drifted across Highway 99 from the mint fields.  The sun rose and painted the Cascades and fields crimson.  Westward, the coastal range was a reservoir of fog, and once I got into them, the sun and clear skies were hidden.  I hoped the fog would stay and keep the day cooler, but I knew it would clear and heat up.

I checked into the Participants' Gate by seven-thirty.  One of the bubble wands Mark keeps in the car made itself prominent, so I took it, walked, let the breeze coax huge bubbles out of the wand, and made the rounds around the Faire.  Most of the merchant stalls were closed, with merchants just beginning to set up and unpack their wares.  I sent bubbles on the wind, and that was the best way to meet old friends.

Hot Dogs and Ray Bradburry

Friday afternoon I made the mistake of eating two hotdogs at The Child's Talent Show on the Last Day of Summer Camp.  The downside of this was that by Friday evening it was clear I should have fasted.  I still felt poorly Saturday morning:  it was sort of like I'd eaten a Deadly Red Pepper.  It seemed wiser to stay at home, so I did, and missed the Hike to the Mountains we had planned with some friends.  (So I missed The First Snowball of Summer, when the hikers discovered snow on the mountain.)

The upside was that I was able to get some writing in, and also to read a great portion of Ray Bradbury's "The Illustrated Man."  I had thought that the book was a novel, but it's a collection of short stories loosely book-ended by the eponymous Illustrated Man's story.  As near as I can tell, a Ray Bradbury story features the following,

• manly soldiers torn from their families by the seductive beauty of the stars, 
• the women who love them tragically, and 
• the sons who are participant-observers of their parents' misplaced loves.  
• Society is a homogeneous character, and  
• usually atomic war is a background feature.  

Mars, Venus, and the other planets are the habitable backdrops standing in for Prince Valiant style islands, filled with rain forest jungles, proud warriors, and priests exploring the nature of extraterrestrial sin.  And this is cool; instead of researching the planets, Spacemen simply go there, and Martians simply live there, and, like Swift, Mr Bradbury can take his readers to an Other Place in order to explore a question about the human condition.

I think what I've learned from Mr. Bradbury is that, even after six decades, the more things change, the more they stay the same.  Writers still write about writing, Science Fiction Heroes are still typically plucky young males who win the girl at the end, and still what is wild and good in humankind will fail before the banal powers of Hollywood, keeping-up-with-the-Joneses, and labor-saving technology.  

Gym Journal

Working out:  Went in Thursday afternoon.  300 cal in 25 minutes on the elliptical, 120 cal in 12 minutes on the rowing machine.  Assisted (14) chin-ups 2/10)  and dips  3/12.  Pec-fly (3/12/50), Lat Pull-down (3/13/80), Curl-ups (2/13).   Sometime during the chin-ups, the endorphins (or testosterone or something) kicked in.   It's distracting because I start laughing and snorting, and the phrase "Suggestive moose poses suggested by..." becomes very funny.  It's a good thing Led Zepplin's "Whole Lotta Love" didn't start playing over the gym's stereo or I would have dropped a weight on my foot laughing.

I've just started to try to eat less bread and wheat-based crackers and more things like peanut butter and tuna and chicken in an attempt to encourage my body to absorb the paunch sitting over my waist.  

Writing:  Some critique during the morning, and then again on the elliptical, and then later.  I also imported some SimpleNote files into Scrivener.

Days of Peanut Butter

Various notes...


Working Out:  Saturday afternoon, I managed to get the full routine in at the gym.  Monday afternoon, I got delayed and  only did the elliptical (180 cal in 15 minutes) and rowing machines (100 cal in 10 minutes) upstairs, and then the pec fly (50-12-3), and some triceps pull downs (40-12-3)... and I've forgotten what else... I want to sat lat pull-down, but that's wrong... maybe I just drank water.


Writing:  Sunday I attended a writing workshop led by Ken Scholes.  What I got out of it was some story starts, and some insight into the writing as a business process.

Afterward, there was a gathering and Ken was playing his guitar and singing some of his songs along with covers of Simon and Garfunkel, the Indigo Girls, and John Denver.  I brought my harp and managed to jam along with him, and he was nice enough to play things in the key of C (even though it was a little high for his voice).  Later, Nina K appeared and pulled out her lute.  It was a lot of fun.  I used to jam with Mark Heiman and with the Carleton College "Picking and Grinning" group (out of the "Rise of Singing" book) in the early 1990's.

Monday Morning I got up and was writing from about 6 AM to 7 AM.  I transcribed some notes.  In the afternoon, while I was on the elliptical, some writing bits came to me, and I managed to write them down before I went onto the rowing machine.


Tuesday:  The Child put gum in his hair Sunday evening, which we didn't discover until the camp counselors told me Monday afternoon.  They suggested peanut butter, and then I promptly forgot all about it as we zoomed off to piano lessons.

So...

Scene (7:40AM in the kitchen.)

The Child:  "I don't want peanut butter in my hair!"

John:  "Bud, you put gum in your hair; having peanut butter rubbed into your hair is a natural consequence."

TC (heading toward the front closet):  "I'm going to hide!"

J (thinking, why didn't I remember this earlier instead of 20 minutes before I have to go to work.  Clears tea kettle, pie pans, and coffee mugs off counter, sets down a towel, and peanut butter.  Sets up a step ladder.  Goes to the closet.  Opens closet):  "Come on, bud; I need you to come to the kitchen.  We don't have a whole lot of time."

TC (resignedly peeking out from behind the great coat and rain pants):  "Were you looking for me?"

J:  "No, I was getting things ready."  (They walk into kitchen.)  "Now, get up on the counter."  (Helps The Child onto the counter.)

TC:  "Augh.  I'm going to die.  I'm going to fall off.  I can't fit under these cabinets."  (Turns around while John stands next to counter to keep him from tumbling off.)  "I feel like I'm strapped down to a table."

J:  (Rolls eyes.)  "OK, so bring your head so it's in the sink."

TC:  "Whoa!  John, those knives are going to kill me."

J:  (Looking at magnetic strip over The Child's face.)  "Oh!  I forgot that was there."  (Places forearm on the cabinet between the knives' tips and The Child's eyes)  "I'm glad you said something... this is an accident waiting to happen."  (Gingerly pulls first knife from magnetic strip so that it doesn't knock other knives loose.)  "I'll just put this over here." (Refrains from singing the Baron and Baroness's number, "Your My Oochy-Choochy Face" from "Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang.")  "There we go..." (Places the fifth carving knife onto the microwave.)

TC:  "Augh, John; I don't want to smell like peanut butter."

J: (Rinsing TC's hair with the sink sprayer)  "Next time don't put gum in your hair."  (Applies a tablespoon of peanut butter to the gum and massages it into TC's scalp.)

TC:  "Ugh.  I smell horrible."

J:  "It's just peanut butter."

TC:  "At least it doesn't smell as bad as you."

J:  "That's not a wise thing to someone who is spraying you with water."  (Rinses out peanut butter.)  "Oh, hey!  That really worked."  (Rinses some more)  "Oh, wait; there's little bit left."  (Repeats peanut butter application on remaining gum.)  "That really does the trick."  (Rinse TC's hair again.)  "OK.  We're done."  (Helps TC off the counter).

TC:  "Augh.  I'm gonna have a crick in my neck for the rest of the day."

J:  "OK, go comb out your hair."

...And the morning rush rushed upon them...

Gazing Guy Rock Stack

 Someone stacked these rocks while I was wandering around with my camera.

I thought it was really cool how he managed to get the top rock to stay in place.

Kneeling Woman Rock Stack

This stack reminded me of a woman grinding corn. Or possibly kneeling in front of a shrine.

Dreaming Dream Interpretation Art

I dreamed I was helping some people sneak back into what ultimately was Arcosanti.  Previously, there had been something about watching a tech fixing my parent's WiFi or stereo...

The dream had been in progress for some time; a group of us were in a white van, and the driver had missed an intersection, and we were returning via a back-road route.

I want to say it was something like 2 AM in the dream.  I flew down a path and over a hedge, where a side door was on a long wing of a building (in waking, I am reminded of the school wing of my parent's church).  The door was only about four feet tall, and locked, but I had a key for some reason.  I crouched down, below the bushes, unlocked the door, and left it open behind me as a signal to the others that we could enter. (I don't remember why we were sneaking in, we weren't in any danger.)

I entered a long hallway.  Through the windows it was night.  The hall was beige carpeted and had creamy white walls.  I took a few steps down the hall and saw two people in it.  At first I thought they were sleeping in the hall and that we'd have to turn back.  At first I thought they were two middle-aged to old Native American women with two little mutt dogs; later, they turned into S. and G., the instructors at The Child's Kung-Fu place; still later they turned into R.T. and some unknown woman from Arcosanti.

Papers and parchments covered the walls and were rolled up on the floor.  Some of them were covered in either a heavy Gothic typeface or else hieroglyphs or Asian characters.   "Have you come for the dream workshop?" the little Native American ladies asked, "We'll create an interpretive scroll of your dream.  One unrolled a three by two foot piece of parchment or heavy yellowish which paper and began rubbing a stick of butter over it.

"Do you want a soft or a hard parchment?" she asked as she left a thin layer of butter (or something that I understood would be embossed or have characters scraped into it).

"Soft," I said.

"Good," she said, "because that's what you're going to get.  Do you have a dream that you'd like interpreted?"

I had five, but they were on my iPad, so I had to dig around in my backpack for the iPad so I could look up which one I wanted to use.  At this point the dream workers became S. and G.  I wanted to work on a Very Long Meaningful Dream -- at the time I could remember it clearly, but going through my dream journal it must have been some amalgam of dreams, or else a dream that I had more than ten years ago.  The Meaningful Dream had the form 1) Travelling over a Boundary, 2) Wandering in a Maze/Mansion, 3) A Dark Stillness/Deep Sleep/Death, 4) Magical Identification/Awakening with a Tree, 5) Bright Holistic Revel in the Otherworld, 6) Bittersweet Return to Regular, Grey Society.  At the time, I didn't formulate it that way, the dream had a shadow knot in the middle of it, with a dark awakening with a craggy redwood in it.  

Because the dream had happened at Arcosanti, they photocopied a map of Arizona centered on Arco, and presented it to me to put into the collage I would create.

I chose the Meaningful Dream and said I was ready.  The dark pre-dawn morning turned into a bright day.   Other people had wandered into the hallway and it was turning into more of a workshop.  At this point, G. had turned into R.T. and he had me sit down on a table while I held a reddish, hockey-puck shaped disk of camphor or cinnamon to my forehead.  Or else it was a burning disk of frankincense (in waking life I'm reminded of an open tin of Tiger Balm).  

After a while he asked, "Are you alright, because you're slumping."

"I'm a little dizzy," I said.

Someone escorted me to a side stairwell, sat me down with some words or symbols roughly punched out of white tissue-like paper, and I stared at a large white poster leaning diagonally against the stair.  The poster had a light, penciled grid on it.

I think I sat there in a haze for some time, trying to put together what I was supposed to do... remembering this Meaningful Dream and not sure how to make the collage or why it would be an interpretation.  The woman, who had been S, but was now an generic middle-aged Psychic Workshop woman with a soft voice, came up and helped me.

And then I woke up, the Meaningful Dream clear in my head, but fading fast...

Rock Stacks

 When we were camping at Iron Creek campgrounds, Mark found a beach with stacked rocks lining it.

We added our our stack of rocks.

 I came back on Sunday (our last day), set up a tripod, and took a few photographs as the sun was swinging around the bend of the river and providing interesting shadows.

Ray Bradbury Method

This weekend, smoke from fires on the other side of the Cascades blew into the valley and the air quality index shot up past 200.  The worst of it was probably late Saturday afternoon and night.  It was marginally better Sunday.  Not the best air to be out in; I felt stuff on the back of my throat and walking to the store felt a little like trying to dance in a very smokey bar.  My lungs did not like it.  The sun was blood red for several hours after rising, as was the quarter moon.  There's a very thin layer of brownish-grey ash all over everything; not so much as you would notice a puff of ash when you go walking, but enough to leave streaks on car windshields when you run your fingertip over it.  Everyone wishes the rains would come, but typically, we've got a few more dry weeks in front of us.  

Writing:  I've been feeling stuck lately, so I thought I'd try Ray Bradbury's method of free-associating nouns to jump-start writing.  It seems to work in terms of getting the words to flow.  It seems to work less well on the story about Venus I'm trying to write, because it's harder to free-associate when you're trying to focus on a particular setting and the urge to free associate fights with the desire to stay focused.  And then you end up writing some other story, maybe a better story than the one that you were trying to work on because it's what's percolating in your brain.  In my case, two haiku poems popped out.

Cold, but no ice forms. /

I am unable to etch /

the reflected clouds.

It's called a slush pile /

How fragile, each snowflake in /

the eternal drift.

Working out:  I suppose 2 minutes of aerobic dancing, some random planks and a few rounds of free weights at home counts.  Right?  

Misssing Keys

Tuesday was a bad day.  One would think that I've learned my lesson about reading e-mail first thing in the morning, but I haven't, so I discovered a rejection letter in my inbox for a clockwork fairytale I'd written.  I'd sort of hoped that I'd make it into this particular market because I'd been practicing reject-o-mancy on my friends' rejections over the last three weeks (he hasn't rejected my story yet, he's probably going to buy it!)  

Then I couldn't find my work key.  I wear it around my neck on a bright green ribbon for a reason.  I think Monday I came home tired, took a nap, and took the key off.  The upshot was that Tuesday morning (having read the rejection and playing the post-rejection tapes in my head) I scurried around the house for fifteen minutes, not finding the key, before leaving, late, without it.  It's not fatal if I don't have it, but it makes getting into my office awkward.  

When I got home, I started looking around for it.  Two and a half hours later, in a foul mood after not writing and not finding it in the couch, under the couch, in the bed sheets, in the closet, in blankets, in a folder, on my writing side table, hiding in the cushions of my Stickly chair, under the cat's bean-bag, in the washing machine in or under a laundry basket, nor hanging from any of the chairs in the house, I finally located it in a dirty clothes hamper in the garage.

By then I had to go grocery shopping.  So much for an afternoon of writing.  The upside was that I discovered a new artist on Spotify.

Working Out:  Wednesday I returned to the gym after almost a week (at least I did some minor free weight work at home).  Put in 160 calories in 20 minutes on the elliptical; 120 calories in 10 minutes on the rowing machine.  2/10 assisted dips; 2/5 assisted chin-ups.  3/12 50lbs pec flies; 3/12 85 lbs lat pulls; 3/13 curl-ups.

Writing:  Well... I've been at a picking-at-things level.  Got a critique of a manuscript from the Wordos, with good feedback about adding even more details about when (1985 and 2015) and where (Minnesota) to make things less confusing.  The language and the concept were well received.

Spirit Lake

 On May 18, 1980, Mt. St. Helens erupted.  A lateral blast of hot air, travelling more than 300 miles per hour, snapped all the trees off at their bases.

A side of the mountain slid off into Spirit Lake.  The lake sloshed 200 feet up the slopes on the far shore, scoured the dirt away from the bedrock, and floated all the newly snapped trees back into the lake's basin.  The logs formed mats which still crowd against the shoreline thirty-five years later.

It's hard to see the scale in these pictures, but some of these logs are three to four feet in diameter and fifty feet long.  The mat stretches out easily four city blocks.

Before the eruption, there was a lodge.  Its location is under water now.

More Mt St Helens

 Last weekend we spent the weekend at Iron Creek Campground, near Mt. St. Helens.  We were fare enough away from the volcano that there were trees unaffected by the 1980 eruption.

We hiked to Iron Creek Falls.  The waterfall was really cool; I liked the way it had cut through the basalt and cascaded into the pool below.  All it needed (to gild a golden lily), was a rock platform in front of the pouring water where one could light a small fire.

 Fireweed grew everywhere.  I liked it because it resembled peacock feathers growing out of the ground.  There were also lupine, paintbrush, and other flowers.

For the most part the temperatures stayed pleasantly in the 60's and 70's.

At Meta Pond, (which, sadly, was not a pond on an island in a pond, which would have been really meta), we saw little thumbnail sized frogs.  Someone had left a fish head near the shore and six crawdads were busy fighting each other for the privilege of snipping bits off of it.  We also saw a dragonfly.

Mark's Birthday Campout

For Mark's birthday we wen to Mount Saint Helens, which is a little over five hours away by car.  The first day was rainy, which was a nice change from all the 90 degree weather we've been having.  The second day was cloudy, but without the rain and warmer.  The last day was clear and warm.

We stayed at Iron Creek campsite, in the Mt St Helens wilderness area. The campsite was mostly pleasant, with only a light Saturday night party camper vibe.  What would have made it perfect would have been the inclusion of a meadow for star gazing.  On the river was a magical beach filled with standing piles of rocks.  We added our own stacks.