The Return . . .

Yeah, it's been a while.

Since April, I've managed to move to a new apartment, an undertaking that, while not as grand as moving 2000 miles, felt somehow just as stressful. Now I'm moved in to my 1-bedroom in Silverlake, a neighborhood I have wanted to inhabit since before I moved to California. It makes the last year feel like preparation before the real life in Cali begins.

I also just closed my ninth season with Faire, and my first season with SoCal Faire. It was full of ups and downs, joys and insecurities, a few small crushes (it wouldn't be me if there weren't), and quite a few new friends. Yes, playing a faery is different at RPF than it was at Bristol: the crowds are different, the site is different, the cast is different. But, I remembered what it was that I loved so much about doing this. I hope I get the chance to do it again.

The job situation is still a little up-in-the-air: I'm a contractor with little hope of converting to anything permanent right now, but I'm putting feelers out there and hoping for the best. I'm sewing again; I have two projects that need finishing before July. I'm writing, though a little sporadic right now. Mostly, I'm just trying to settle in, and see what direction life wants to take at the moment. I'm willing to sit back and ride the wave for a bit, but I know it won't be long before my fingers itch and I have to take the wheel. I'm just not sure yet which way I want to steer.

In the Moment . . .

photo via Joe Foley

We were able to play with the airbrushes this weekend, and the results were pretty damn lovely.

Being in a directorial position (I am AD for the troupe out here) has been an eye-opening experience: instead of focusing on my own experiences and feelings as I step back into Gaia's slippers, my eyes have been turned outward towards the fledgling faeries just finding their footing in the world. There were times in the beginning of the rehearsal process when this served to separate me from myself, to divide my brain in half so that I couldn't feel truly present in either role. But, in the last few weeks I have started to really feel like "Mom Faery" to them, and Saturday afternoon was the most poignant example of that.

I should start by explaining that although my director and I painted everyone else, neither of us got painted (naturally!). I was also unable to put on any of my costume, as it is still being resized for me. So, as we set out into the world late Saturday afternoon, I was the only member of the group that looked, for the most part, human. As we walked to a grassy area to center ourselves and start to play, I worried that this would make me feel less of a faery, especially as I looked out at the others in beautiful shades of pink and green and yellow and grey. We all stepped into our parts, and I took a deep breath of nature and tried to put my humanity aside.

At first, I struggled. I looked inside and kept feeling jarred by the thought of my clothes and bare face, wondering what observers thought seeing me amoung the colorful group. Then, I stopped thinking, stopped listening to that voice, and I looked out. I looked at my fae. I saw them crawl along the ground, flowing through the space gracefully with skin like painted porcelain. I saw them climbing the trees like the world was new, and this was their first time in it. And, I stepped into their moment, and felt Gaia come over me. I might not have been in costume or makeup, but just then I didn't feel like I needed them; I was in the character, in the moment. It was like watching a child on Christmas morning, and remembering what it felt like to be them; I was experiencing, for just a few moments, what it felt like to be a faery through the eyes of the others.

I am so excited for the season to start; we have such a wonderful group of faeries, and I cannot wait for them to experience what it means to be a Fantastickal in the eyes of the children who will come to play with them. And, I cannot wait to experience that too.

When the Swallows Return . . .

Our tour guide, Jim, talks about Fr. Junipero Serra, who founded the Mission

Last weekend my sister and brother-in-law came to visit SoCal, to stay with his grandparents in Laguna Niguel (about 30 mi south of Long Beach). I got to see them on saturday, and the three of us went down to San Juan Capistrano to tour the Mission. If that names rings a bell, you're probabaly thinking, "Isn't there a bird or something . . ." Yep. San Juan Capistrano is famous for the huge migration of swallows there every year. In mid-March, the swallows arrive from South America, thousands of them nesting all around the city. Then, in early to mid-October, they migrate back. But, most people wouldn't even know about that if not for the Mission.

The Mission was founded back in the 1700's by Fr. Serra, who basically walked there from Mexico. Priests were hardcore back then. The Spanish wanted to establish a foothold in the territory before somebody moved in to take it from them, and instead of sending a bunch of soldiers, they sent priests. Turns out this wasn't as cracked as it sounds; the missions those priests founded are still around today. Fr. Serra walked until he got to what would become San Juan Capistrano, met the natives that were living there, the Acjachemen, and set about building the mission and converting them. Within about a generation, the Acjachemen had become the Juanenos, and the Mission at San Juan Capistrano stood in the middle of the wilderness.

In the early 1900's, the Mission was in really bad shape, and Fr. O'Sullivan swept down on it and started to rebuild. He's the source of the Swallow Myth; he decided to get the Mission some press by calling up a radio station and telling them about the migration each year, getting them to come down with a reporter and turn it into a national event. Most people probably wouldn't have heard of the Mission, and it wouldn't be standing today, if not for Fr. O'Sullivan.

Swallow nests!

There's a graveyard near the back, and everyone buried there, with the exception of Fr. O'Sullivan, is Juaneno. There are thousands of bodies there in a relatively small area; they used to stack bodies vertically in those days.

The Stone Church is little more than ruins now, and has a tragic history: just a few years after its completion, a terrible earthquake levelled it in 1812. Unfortunately, the earthquake hit during mass, and on a feast day. 40 people died under the rubble, and they could not rebuild afterwards. Each year, on the anniversary, the Juaneno people come out to the ruins of the church and hold a memorial service at dawn.

It was a beautiful tour and an awesome day. If I ever get the chance, I'm definitely going back.

Snow in April . . .

I hate snow.
For as long as I can remember, Chicago in Spring has been the most unpredictable season of any, showing a daring ankle with 65-degree weather in March and then shocking us with 30-degree weather in April. I remember in my childhood a snowstorm at the end of May. When I move to SoCal in 2011, I'm never crossing the Mississippi again.
Still, there is a kind of strange beauty in the juxtaposition of ice crystals over tender green buds just peeking out of branches; a rime of frost on new tulips and crocuses. Spring, for its very changeability and unpredictability, has been the favorite topic of poets and painters for centuries. In spite of the shock of snow boots in April, I still say that Spring is my favorite season.
All the same, I can't wait for the move;)

If there were fragrance
these heavy snowflakes settling . . .
Lilies on the rocks

-Basho