At The Rose Festival, I made a lot of new friends, but some of them were old friends in disguise. Like Jim, who it turns out I went on a magical bus ride together, 2 years ago. I wouldn’t have realized he was that Jim if I hadn’t been talking with Chelsea about dreamy Ulyssis. And that dreamy bio-diesel bus. That magical bus ride took me down to San Jose for my 10 year high school reunion, and flirting with Jim on the way down made it a lot less unnerving. He was helping his girlfriend, Emily with her sewing business. She sews really cool shit, and she offers lessons! I brought her an old faux-red-rabbit vest that I’ve never worn, and I’ve always wished was something else. It was a Christmas present from an old friend, when her presents were mostly near-misses. The thing is, it was the right color, and it was not-real, which is good, because real-red-rabbit, creeps me out. I feel bad that a rabbit was humiliated after it was killed for my personal color preference. Somehow it seems like excessive cruelty, to kill an animal and then say “Yeah, I wanted your fur, but it’s not quite the right color for my wardrobe.” Which is why I couldn’t bring myself to wear the real-dyed-rabbit stole that my sister gave me. And eventually, I was relieved when my cats discovered that it made a great toy.
So, the vest was perfect. Except that it’s only seeming purpose was to hide my boobs. And, you know, in two weeks I’m going to be 30. So I think it’s time I come to terms with the fact that I will never, ever wear something whose only purpose is to hide my boobs. I love my boobs. I want everyone else to love my boobs. They are magical, and showing them off makes me feel normal.
So, I brought the vest, and this skirt that I’d never really fixed to make it all skirt like to Emily and Jim and I said “I want you to combine these.” And they did! It was awesome, and sexy. And when St. Christopher saw the skirt he said “You’re going to get a lot of heavy petting in that skirt!” In his sexy hoarse voice.
Can you beleive all these bracelets used to be skateboards? I thought it was genius. It made me wish I liked skate-boarding. But, you know, I fall down a lot when I’m just walking, and I broke my arm roller-skating, and my leg when I was biking.I think I have enough proof that my balance is too shitty for me to try that sort of magic.
Most days, at the Rose Festival, I sat next to Chris, who makes these marvellous lamps and sculptures. My chair fell apart on the second day of The Festival, and I decided to trash it. I was really upset, mostly because I wanted to be able to recycle it. I got the chair with my dresser, both are brightly painted, and were sitting out on the side of the road three years ago, free for anyone who wanted them. So the chair was not a loss. But I worried that not recycling any part of it might send me to Hell. I was preoccupied with this when I saw Chris, gripping the underside, metal part of the chair. “What’re you doing with that?” I asked her. “Oh, I’m going to make something beautiful out of it.” She smiled. I was so grateful that she was saving my soul, and even more delighted, I mean, what a beautiful thing to say!
On Saturday, Betsy The Great came and sold her shit, with her assistant, Lupe. And we haven’t talked in months. It was so good to see her! Especially because she was the one who pointed out the Rose Festival, chich at this point felt like Craft Camp more than anything else.
As I helped St. Christopher pack up his stuff, he asked “Do you think we’ll keep in touch?” he was trying out his “american-bro” accent, but he was tired, and so he kept slipping back into his native Limey. “I don’t know, I wrote my phone number on your camp picture, with KIT next to it.” I said, trying to keep in character, since we were apparently doing a bit about tennage kids, sad about the end of camp. He didn’t get it, but he told me a few days earlier that English kids don’t go to camp, they go to the Ocean and stay in hostels, but there is no “camp” for them. So I figured it was a cultural issue. Or maybe It wasn’t as funny as both of us singing the songs that get us through when we’re too tired to go on anymore. Mine was (and always will be) “Baby Got Back” and his was “You don’t mess around with Jim”.
Merritt and her cute-as-pie husband drove me and my typewriter, and my signs home and we were all delerious with exhaustion by then, but I still didn’t want to get out of her car. And I couldn’t go to sleep later, until I’d cried all the way through Cider House Rules.
The last few days have been strange. I feel a little bereft without my friends, but all the rest I got, and all the talking I did with my peer about how they’re moving their business forward have energised me. I’m very close to finishing my manuscripts, to send to publishers, so that a book of Snarky Cards can come out in the next year, and I have started painting my cards; actual paintings, that I will start selling online soon. Since people use my cards as art to decorate their house, I figured that I could offer then as actual art too. I’ll have a few done by next week, for your persual. Tonight we’re having a reunion at Chopstix, and we’re going to get good and drunk, and sing us some crazy songs. It’s not going to be the same as working together, but that’s the problem with time, it moves. And if you don’t appreciate the time you have together, you can’t really make up for it later. Which is why, more often than not, you’ll find me behaving like a sentimental fool. So I don’t miss enjoying a single minute of it all.