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Goings and Comings
Jul. 24th, 2006 04:56 pmIt feels like most of my posts lately have been made on my return from somewhere, as I suppose makes sense with so much travelling this summer. Now I'm back from the folk fest, quieter in mind than I have been for a little while, and I have a little bit of time. So:
The folk fest was wonderful. It gets better every year, both because it does get better every year and because it's my yearly spiritual event, a reflection of myself, and oh! how I have grown since the first time I went eleven years ago. I am, hands down, a better, more complete, happier person now.
Thre's so much to say about it, and so I'll start at the beginning. Oh Friday I did a half day of work, packed my stuff in my new backpack, dropped my key off with Bob so he could poke my rats while I was gone, and got on the West Coast Express. I didn't even bring a tent, trusting to the weather forecast enough to go with just a tarp, a sleeping bag, an extra blanket, and some clothing. The train was late, but I caught the bus up Stave Lake Street anyhow (it waited) and there I was, just as it was opening. My backpack is truly a thing of beauty, and even loaded up heavy with stuff roped on to it my hips get snuggled but my bad shoulder doesn't hurt. Running around with the backpack during the day I could feel the extra weight in my knees, in my shins, and in my lowered centre of gravity but I never felt particularly burdened or unwieldy. Very good.
I was already sweating by the time I got to the gate of the festival, of course-- it broke 40 in Mission this weekend. Wearing full hippie regalia I wandered through the camp area, sneaking back behind a truck and some tents into a grassy nest inside a blackberry thicket where I set up my tarp envelope to sleep in. The tarp was just to keep off the heavy dew, and it succeeded admirably at that. I had no walls at all from Friday to Sunday night, when I got in the van and my brain felt funny to be enclosed all the way around.
The first night of the festival was all dancing, fiddles and who knows what else. Gaby was there, and we danced and chatted a bit, and I realised that I'm in very good shape this year. I danced solid, drank four litres of water, and could feel the joy radiating from my body the whole time.
This year the folk fest was full of 16-22 year olds, as if Mission youth had just discovered that it's a great party, which I suppose they had. It was awesome to be part of this full age spectrum with remarkably little rowdiness (though a lot of boisterousness) all dancing during the evening. One of the boys kept inviting me to the jam afterwards, and that whole thing would have been a lot sweeter if the only think I could think to say wasn't, 'didn't I go to school with your older brother'. Ahh, Mission. I didn't say it, of course.
I debated showering (cold water only) before bed and settled on a bit of a rinse, thus condemning my sleeping bag to stickiness for the rest of the trip. Oh, well, I didn't spend much time in it anysways, since I was up at 7:30 the next morning and wandering. Greenwitch and Thatguy were there early, and I got to chat with them, which was fabulous.
Also fabulous was the dancing. I kept dancing right through the whole fest, it was an amazing year for dance music and I felt so good the entire time. On day two during the afternoon I was almost certain, not that I was radiating joy as I did for most of the weekend, but that my body had been replaced by some sort of conceptual representation of joy, as if I was some sort of artifact that arose from the interaction of music and sunlight and air. I can't even begin to say what I mean here. This dancing is neither a conscious process, nor a meditation, nor a means to some sort of end. It's simply what I do, and it's what gives me my feeling of connection where I need something above gardening for that.
The second evening started off with a cuban band, and... you know, things just got better.
I give up on this post right now. If I write, it was awesome, I was so happy one more time, lj's gonna boot me for negative angst-ratings, and there's not really much more to say. The Cuban trumpet player kissed me on the cheek and said I 'danced so hot'. People talked to me. There were other dedicated dancers and we're going to dance on Tues the 3rd at a cuban show -- come with us. I got phone numbers. I slept and woke to the silhouette fo blackberry leaves against the sky. I drank rice milk. I ate North African cuisine. I stayed in the shade, mostly, to dance, and I didn't sunburn. I took five and four cold showers a day, in my clothes. I pulled thorns and thistles out of my feet. I spent so much of the time with an incredulous, open-mouthed grin on my face that my throat got sore. I screamed after good bands. I was rendered speechless by a jam by a master guitar player from Scotland, an experimental American fiddle player, a celtic fiddle band, and another master guitarist. I never left Heritage Park. I rummaged through clothing for hours and chatted meanwhile with a schoolteacher and his friend, the guy whose wife runs Alchemy clothing, about sweatshops and relationships. I spoke with children, more teachers, and reporters and random people from Washington. I duly experienced my Saturday night angst when going to bed alone a and duly got over it. I looked at the stars, brither than Vancouver stars but dimmer than Nelson stars. I danced a song for each person I love. I got a ride home with Kynnin, Dennis, and Mouse and we chatted uneventfully. It was amazing. I win.
Come next year. I'll be there.
The folk fest was wonderful. It gets better every year, both because it does get better every year and because it's my yearly spiritual event, a reflection of myself, and oh! how I have grown since the first time I went eleven years ago. I am, hands down, a better, more complete, happier person now.
Thre's so much to say about it, and so I'll start at the beginning. Oh Friday I did a half day of work, packed my stuff in my new backpack, dropped my key off with Bob so he could poke my rats while I was gone, and got on the West Coast Express. I didn't even bring a tent, trusting to the weather forecast enough to go with just a tarp, a sleeping bag, an extra blanket, and some clothing. The train was late, but I caught the bus up Stave Lake Street anyhow (it waited) and there I was, just as it was opening. My backpack is truly a thing of beauty, and even loaded up heavy with stuff roped on to it my hips get snuggled but my bad shoulder doesn't hurt. Running around with the backpack during the day I could feel the extra weight in my knees, in my shins, and in my lowered centre of gravity but I never felt particularly burdened or unwieldy. Very good.
I was already sweating by the time I got to the gate of the festival, of course-- it broke 40 in Mission this weekend. Wearing full hippie regalia I wandered through the camp area, sneaking back behind a truck and some tents into a grassy nest inside a blackberry thicket where I set up my tarp envelope to sleep in. The tarp was just to keep off the heavy dew, and it succeeded admirably at that. I had no walls at all from Friday to Sunday night, when I got in the van and my brain felt funny to be enclosed all the way around.
The first night of the festival was all dancing, fiddles and who knows what else. Gaby was there, and we danced and chatted a bit, and I realised that I'm in very good shape this year. I danced solid, drank four litres of water, and could feel the joy radiating from my body the whole time.
This year the folk fest was full of 16-22 year olds, as if Mission youth had just discovered that it's a great party, which I suppose they had. It was awesome to be part of this full age spectrum with remarkably little rowdiness (though a lot of boisterousness) all dancing during the evening. One of the boys kept inviting me to the jam afterwards, and that whole thing would have been a lot sweeter if the only think I could think to say wasn't, 'didn't I go to school with your older brother'. Ahh, Mission. I didn't say it, of course.
I debated showering (cold water only) before bed and settled on a bit of a rinse, thus condemning my sleeping bag to stickiness for the rest of the trip. Oh, well, I didn't spend much time in it anysways, since I was up at 7:30 the next morning and wandering. Greenwitch and Thatguy were there early, and I got to chat with them, which was fabulous.
Also fabulous was the dancing. I kept dancing right through the whole fest, it was an amazing year for dance music and I felt so good the entire time. On day two during the afternoon I was almost certain, not that I was radiating joy as I did for most of the weekend, but that my body had been replaced by some sort of conceptual representation of joy, as if I was some sort of artifact that arose from the interaction of music and sunlight and air. I can't even begin to say what I mean here. This dancing is neither a conscious process, nor a meditation, nor a means to some sort of end. It's simply what I do, and it's what gives me my feeling of connection where I need something above gardening for that.
The second evening started off with a cuban band, and... you know, things just got better.
I give up on this post right now. If I write, it was awesome, I was so happy one more time, lj's gonna boot me for negative angst-ratings, and there's not really much more to say. The Cuban trumpet player kissed me on the cheek and said I 'danced so hot'. People talked to me. There were other dedicated dancers and we're going to dance on Tues the 3rd at a cuban show -- come with us. I got phone numbers. I slept and woke to the silhouette fo blackberry leaves against the sky. I drank rice milk. I ate North African cuisine. I stayed in the shade, mostly, to dance, and I didn't sunburn. I took five and four cold showers a day, in my clothes. I pulled thorns and thistles out of my feet. I spent so much of the time with an incredulous, open-mouthed grin on my face that my throat got sore. I screamed after good bands. I was rendered speechless by a jam by a master guitar player from Scotland, an experimental American fiddle player, a celtic fiddle band, and another master guitarist. I never left Heritage Park. I rummaged through clothing for hours and chatted meanwhile with a schoolteacher and his friend, the guy whose wife runs Alchemy clothing, about sweatshops and relationships. I spoke with children, more teachers, and reporters and random people from Washington. I duly experienced my Saturday night angst when going to bed alone a and duly got over it. I looked at the stars, brither than Vancouver stars but dimmer than Nelson stars. I danced a song for each person I love. I got a ride home with Kynnin, Dennis, and Mouse and we chatted uneventfully. It was amazing. I win.
Come next year. I'll be there.
