Tyler Yoder's Blog, page 39

Poetic Interlude XX

Illness
 
That cruel curl to your lip,
-the edge of your voice-
The rare lack of make-up
Masking your crumpled skin.
Rotting teeth, drowned sinuses,
Stubby thick fingers; crumpled nails:
Fresh blood on ruined wrists.
 
Barbara
 
The wind, she gusts strangely today:
Arguing, as a sign of love,
With familiar strangers, long acquainted.
Memories, foggy or absent, now,
Have dried on cheeks to dusty streams,
Pooling with brackish water.


Tagged: Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Writing

Post the Ninety-Second: In Which We Find Kubla Khan

Gentle Reader, I am very excited to write this post. I hope that I have time to edit it before it goes live – a little more than a week from now. I just had a memory pop into my head, from Faire, and since we’re doing a Friday series about Faire for right now*, I just had to put down my wineglass and start it.

Picture it: I am dressed as Hamlet; my best friend, Miss Ward, is dressed as a fairy in blue. We are both holding parasols; we are perched on the back end of a convertible, that will convey us from the camping site of the Faire up to where the Faire actually is. This is Miss Ward’s last time here before she flies to Korea, on her own in the wide world for the first time. We are making the most of our time together, and are both tremendously excited.

Chauffeured

We wander the Faire, as one does; when one has been doing this as long as we have – and we stopped working it long ago, mind you – there is a tendency to just change costumes, go and take a turn around Merchant’s Row, and return to camp, and then repeat. In this instance, Miss Ward wanted to do the full tourist thing – take in some shows, visit the vendors, and so on.

It came to pass, as we first entered the site proper, that Miss Ward ran into someone we’d known for years. I don’t know the actual name of her character, but as she handed out white rocks and always refused to speak, we have called her the Crack Fairy since time immemorial†.  The two blue fairies are seen exchanging a moment, here:

I’m fairly certain that fairies don’t do Crack. They just sell it.

And then – oh, this is the moment that inspired the post! – we saw an Abyssinian maid, and, in fact, on a dulcimer she played – she ought to have been singing of Mount Abora.

If you don’t understand the reference, it’s from Coleridge’s Kubla Khan, written because of a dream, never finished, and one of my favorite poems. Both Miss Ward and I happen to know it by heart, and on seeing the girl, playing the instrument named above – we began to recite‡. Not in tandem – we alternated lines, until by the last stanza, in perfect unison, we finished.

“His flashing eyes! His floating hair!
Weave a circle ’round him thrice -
And shut your eyes with holy dread,
For he on Honeydew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise – “

A completely spontaneous moment of poetry.

*********

*Well, by the time you’ve finished reading this post, we’re done, really. I hope you didn’t mind it; I promise to write about my Farewell Party/Triumphant Abdication that’s due to take place THIS SUNDAY very soon. By the way, if you see this, Gentle Reader, and you’ve ever been to Paisley Glen, please come by, if you can, and bring everything full circle.

†2003

‡Kubla Khan, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge:

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And ‘mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And ‘mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ‘twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

If you made it through all that – it’s not that long, and it’s a lovely recitation – well, here’s a bonus photo. I have a dead bird hat. You’re welcome.

If you can get any more skeptical than this, do let me know in the comments.

 

//

Tagged: Abdication, Faire, Fairies, Paisley Glen, Poetry, Ren Faire, Washington Midsummer Renaissance Faire

Post the Ninety-First: In Which We Explore Online Dating

Gentle Reader, are you familiar with online dating? I’m sure that you’re aware of its existence, and that people have hilarious stories about the photos in profiles being decades out of date, but have you experienced it? Within minutes of setting up a profile for my mother, for example, she was messaged by a 93-year-old man with a diaper fetish. No joke.

I’ve repeatedly talked about the fact that I really don’t date much*, but for years I kept a profile up on OkCupid, just in case. I ran into a few of the fellas from there once or twice – out at the Mix, we’d recognize each other from the Internet, but mostly I just used it to talk to people, find out that the guy was looking for one thing, and it wasn’t exactly romance.

Typically, if this is the gent’s profile picture, he doesn’t want to meet for coffee.

Well, I finally found a gentleman who was interested in conversation, and with similar interests to mine†. We wrote back and forth for ages, and he was pretty much exactly perfect. After three months or so of this, we decided to meet in person.  We arranged to meet on a Sunday; I took the bus to our meeting spot, and got into his car.

You might be tempted to think that this is the part where he turns out to be an absolute lunatic and I end up getting axe-murdered or something. You would be wrong; that part comes later. What happens at this point is that we drive down to the St. Helen’s district of Tacoma, which is one of my favourite parts of town; the historic buildings are gorgeous, the theatres are nearby, there are interesting local shops and breweries and independent bookstores, and statuary litters the sidewalks. In the pale cool sun of a spring afternoon, we strolled, hand in hand. Though tepid at first, our conversation warmed, and soon we were chatting away as we did online.

Best photo of this part of town that I could muster. The clown is not my date.

We immediately conferred the title of “boyfriend” upon each other, and went up to the Mix, where – after discovering that he was a psychologist, I spent the rest of the conversation thinking that he was psychoanalyzing everything that I said. He laughed when I confessed that, and reassured me that he was off the clock – unless there were things that I wanted help working through?

Well, if you get a few drinks into me – which he did – and invite me to open up, you have only yourself to blame. It wasn’t long until I was discussing my family’s dirty little secret of mental imbalances, and it’s not such a long step from there to self-medication, and at that point it just seemed natural to disclose my rape. There was a break-down, and some tears.

Then he got into his car and left. Not because I was some crazy guy that he met on the Internet, but because I had friends who were coming to meet me, and he had to go to work that evening, and it was the agreed-upon end of the date. As I struggled to compose myself, I wondered if I’d ever hear from him again, after that. I did, as it happens.

It doesn’t take much to make me run from romance, though. After entering into any sort of romantic situation, I begin to panic, to struggle, to attempt to flee. This case was no different. Despite the fact that he contacted me right away, and we talked as we did before, and the fact that he’d helped talk me through some of my severest issues and hadn’t run – despite all of this, I still began to edge away. I can’t help it. He was a nice guy, fairly attractive, and willing to help me, and I slowly stopped contact.

This is what it looks like in my head, when someone wants to get to know me better.

At this point, I hadn’t heard from the young man at all for about two weeks. I felt guilty, as one does when one apparently has to shut out kind, understanding people, but I consoled myself by feeling that I was freeing him to date people who aren’t emotional wrecks. I was taken completely by surprise one evening, then, when I received twenty phone calls from him in thirty minutes, completely out of the blue. Further, this is the quickest way to hit my panic buttons.

The texts began: cajoling, pleading, eventually threatening. I explained via text that he was triggering me; he didn’t care. He began to get angrier and angrier, and his previously eloquent words – which are what attracted me to him in the first place – became weapons. He announced that he was going to hunt me down; he told me that I’d better be dead in a ditch somewhere, because that was the only acceptable excuse for not taking his calls; on, and on, and on. He knew that I’d be at the Mix, because it was Sunday; he said that he was coming to find me.

I hightailed it out of there as fast as my designated driver could drive.

I have since lost access to my OkCupid profile, which is just as well, because every few months I still get a message from him. He’ll sometimes track me down on other sites, like Facebook, but I always block or ignore him; he has created fake profiles to get around that on a number of occasions. Here I was, thinking that I was the crazy one.

*********

*I really don’t date much, but apparently I have a million stories about dating, somehow, that end up here. I don’t understand it, myself.

† Fortunately, these similar interests were more along the lines of poetry, and did not include taxidermy. Who knows what might have happened?

Tagged: Boys, Crazy Stalkers, Dating, I almost died y'all, OkCupid, Online Dating, The Mix

Post the Ninetieth: In Which I Am David Bowie

Gentle Reader, if you haven’t yet learned that I adore costumes and dressing up, you are possibly a little addled, or new here. The sidebar to the left is a testament to my penchant for fancy outfits – take a look right now. Wait – is that a photograph of David Bowie?

Yes, it is. Well, not quite: it’s a photograph of your humble host here, made to look like David Bowie in his incomparable role as Jareth, the Goblin King, from Labyrinth.

The resemblance is uncanny

Yes, one year I decided that I was going to do this for the whirlwind of balls, soirées, and parties that is known as Halloweekend, a constant cocktail blitz. Due to my work schedule at the time, and reliance on public transportation, David Bowie was caught unprepared, in various hilarious situations.

Like This

My workplace at the time was also involved with a local charity function, the Ghost Train, which entertains children in a safe environment by taking them on a miniature train ride past various spooky scenes. Our theme was something to do with aliens, and for some reason David Bowie was there, too.

I really don’t know what is supposed to be going on, here

We had both a film viewing (of Rocky Horror, at the Admiral Theatre in Bremerton) and a costume party to follow the Ghost Train, and I was a little worried about that – the makeup involved takes hours. After two hours of literal, violent, pratfalls, I was neither feeling nor looking my best. Also, somehow Jareth had transformed into a Forest-Hobo-Drag Queen, which – while frightening – is not exactly the look I had been going for.

I made a song about Forest-Hobo-Drag Queen, but it never really took off.

Luckily, I was able to salvage the situation, and ended up well turned-out at the theatre. If it hadn’t taken me quite so long to repair my look, I was informed that I would have won the costume contest. It’s a damned shame.

All in all, the costume was an unqualified success, and was well-recieved. I’m pretty sure that I am so good at being David Bowie that when he finally dies, people won’t notice because I’ll have secretly replaced him. You’re welcome.

Tagged: Costumes, David Bowie, Halloweekend, Jareth

Poetic Interlude XIX

Bathrooms

White Shoulders

Pink Porcelain, in a shade out of fashion for years

An oval cake of soap, the shape of the tub,

Faded floral pinks and greens.

Glamorous busts of women long dead, now filled with flowers:

Thelma, Queen of Perfumes.

Old Spice, in its prim white bottle;

Steel soap-dish holds coal-tar,

Mounted on white tile.

Neatly laid out, brush and straight-razor,

A family resemblance.

Careful, impossibly slow,

The effects of time are scraped from the face;

The old man and the young peer out of the mirror.

Tagged: Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Writing

Post the Eighty-Ninth: The Invention of Fancy-Time

Gentle Reader, the Faire continues for three weekends. As I said last Friday, this is my last year, but I thought it would be fun to continue with Faire-related posts each Friday, while I’m on site doing the sorts of things described. Therefore, Gentle Reader, I shall craft you a tale, of the origin of something called Fancy-Time, which takes place at seven o’clock sharp, whenever you need an extra bit of joie de vivre.

At Faire, unless you’re working it, there’s no real division between day and night, such as cocktail hour. You’re in a field, and drinking begins quite early*. The days are broiling hot; you’re dehydrated, you’re tipsy, you’re in a field in a costume and nothing makes much sense, except a sense of passion and history. It’s hot and chaotic and combines all the thrills and tension of being backstage at the theatre with the dangers of the savannah. Sometimes, people collapse from all of this.

Which may explain scenes like this.

It came to pass that, when dear Miss Ward dropped in from South-East Asia one day, it fell to me to entertain her. She’d been abroad, and her former haunt surely wasn’t fancy enough any more, and we were all too exhausted/stressed to tidy up. Nonetheless, We’d have to class the joint up before she arrived. I dashed into my tent, where there was a profusion of finery, and madly started tossing outfits to the people lounged about.  I decided that we were going to host a formal dance in Miss Ward’s honor, at seven sharp, and people had damn well better dress up. Time period wasn’t important, and mixture of elements was encouraged; fanciness and frippery were the only requirement. Once attired, we took some photographs, and went on a tour around the field, inviting the other households to our little ball.

How could they say no to a face like this?

Miss Ward arrived; our household was attired in splendor to greet her. Unfortunately, no guests showed up. We posed for a group portrait, deciding that our fanciness was an end in itself – the whole point of having nice things is to use them.

Pictured: Glamour

A trifle cross, we paraded once more around the field, resplendent. People saw us coming, and dashed to find their own finery, throwing whatever silks and velvets were handy onto their weary frames, joining the procession. Soon we were thirty strong, and the strange combinations of outfits made a peacock look monochromatic. The heat was beginning to get to us, though – but wait! What is that, in the distance?

A water-buffalo. Which, in this context, is not the animal you are familiar with, but a truck with a large tank, hired to spray water over the dry, dry, field, so that people don’t burn the place down. As one, we broke into a run, heading for the cold, clear, water.

When we reached the gorgeous spray, we danced and cavorted in it. Our followers joined us, reveling in the cool refreshment, not one of us giving a damn about the water on our fancy clothes. We followed the truck, and had our formal dance, drenched, in its wake.

*********

* Morality is rather… different at events such as these. It’s more shocking when you don’t invite someone to share your tent of an evening; drinking happens early, and often, and nobody thinks anything of it. It’s a bit of a roman holiday, truth be told.

//

Tagged: Fabulous Parties, Fancy Time, Paisley Glen, Ren Faire, Ridiculous Life, Washington Midsummer Renaissance Faire

Post the Eighty-Eighth: In Which We Find Duckabush

The Internet tells me, Gentle Reader, that the Duckabush River flows through the Olympic National Forest and is totally a real place. When I first heard of it, I didn’t believe that it was – it was too absurd. Nonetheless, my great-grandparents had apparently owned property out there, and they’d spend summers there rather than in the magnificent Seattle house (which had a conservatory, incidentally) next to Mr. and Mrs. M. My grandfather enjoyed his youthful summers out there, and once caught a turtle there, I guess? I learned all this during his last summer, and his memories were a little vague, towards the end. Still, given that my Uncle George was moving to the area, Grandpa wanted to trek out there one last time. Maman and I were happy to take him.

During the three-hour drive* there, we heard many of his stories, and it was one of the last times I was privileged to do so. I learned how his father built a church that is still standing in Bremerton, and a little about my Great-Great-Grandmother’s brothel in Australia, but mostly he talked about his childhood. Once we arrived in the general vicinity, we spent another hour driving up and down what was little more than a half-lane track, looking for the old rope bridge. We never found it.

Eventually giving up, we turned around and went back to the little cafe that was the only non-residential building in miles. We waited there to meet my Uncle, who hadn’t answered his phone for the last hour. Grandpa had his heart set on seeing his son – he knew that he didn’t have much time left. When Maman finally got ahold of Uncle, she used this, blackmailing him into coming. It worked.

My late Uncle had always been very careful not to let the family see him when he was high. However, given that it was probably the last time that he’d see his father alive, he made an exception. What’s worse – he drove himself. When he and his entourage showed up – Uncle was living in a greenhouse on a property that he may or may not have purchased, with a twenty-six year old girlfriend, another couple of about that age, and his friend W., in his fifties – it should not have been a funny reunion. It should have been a touching, heartwarming moment, the two Georges of different generations sharing a special goodbye, father and son. That is not what happened.

SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! went the tires, as my Uncle whipped into the parking lot.

SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! went my Grandfather’s hearing aid, which was perpetually maladjusted, like the lot of us.

SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! went my mother, as she tried to stifle her laughter at the black Bronco full of people, with my sixty-five-year-old coked up uncle leaping out, sporting a brand-new mohawk.

As my mother jumped out of the driver’s door of our car, running off so that she could guffaw without offending, my Uncle walked up to my Grandfather’s window. Grandpa’s hearing aid was still mis-tuned, and there was a twenty-minute exchange that was essentially this:

“George! Some of your mail came to my house again.”

“Oh hey thanks, Dad. You know, I was thinking you could come and hey this isn’t my mail, it’s your mail – see – it’s been opened.†”

“What’s that? I can’t get the damn thing SKRREEEEE is that better? No, George, I don’t want your mail.”

“No dad that’s your SSN not my SSN and anyway it’s from last year and anyway did you want to come see the new place, dad?”

“You keep that mail, George.”

Twenty minutes. Finally, a decision was reached; we followed my Uncle to his new place, but not too closely – he was bouncing off the cliff-face to our right up the winding, mountain road. I should note that on the left was a drop into the ravine, and into the river. We finally arrived at the entrance to the driveway, where the greenhouse was. It was one of the ones you can get at any garden supply store, about six feet by eight. There was no running water, and no tents were in sight. This, evidently, was the new home.

“Butya have to make it down to the place, hmmm, where we’re gonna build the new house, Dad. Get behind me on the ATV”

We ended up taking my mom’s van down, instead, because getting on the ATV behind my Uncle would have been an insane act. We also ended up not making it all the way down, because a van is not an ATV, and as the only one young and physically able enough to push a van up the steep mountain road, I refused. We got out, walked around. There was more disapproving intergenerational banter. Neither man would address the real point of the visit, or acknowledge that they were saying goodbye. We’re stubborn, we Yoders. Claiming fatigue, Grandpa had me help him into the car, and we left. Once we were safely out of earshot, he turned to me.

“Do you think your Uncle was smoking dope?”

*********

* I checked, via Google Maps, just now.

† I am trying and failing to recapture my Uncle’s speech patterns here. Fill your mouth with mashed potatoes and marbles, then lose your front teeth and spend the majority of your adult life on coke, while suffering from mental illness and PTSD from ‘Nam. That’s what he sounds like, and I just can’t make mere letters on a screen recreate that. I’m sorry.

//

Tagged: drugs, Family Stories That Are Completely True

Post the Eighty-Seventh: Tea Party In The Park

Gentle Reader, do you ever suddenly feel the need to have a little bit more fanciness in your life? I often do, and most of my friends do, as well. This is why, when Miss Spectackular decided to host a formal tea-party at Wright’s Park, I threw my hat into the ring without hesitation.

This hat, specifically.

The theme, beyond using fine china in a picnic setting, involved big hats. Typically, I will make a new hat for such an occasion, but I accepted the invitation on the spur of the moment, and a purchased hat would have to do.

When I arrived at the park, the table was already laid. I was late, and the guests were waiting for me.

I’m so glad you could join us!

I sat, and Miss Spectackular began to pour, the silver spout tinkling when it touched the china. Miss Capere and I shared some delicate gossip in a faint murmur, while Mr. Hicks passed around a tray of scones. We felt very civilized.

Did you hear what Captain Willoughby did to that poor girl?

The only possible improvement would have been the addition of croquet, or bocce, or other lawn entertainments. The sun sparkled against the crystal, the conversation was congenial, and our whimsical urges were sated, for the moment.

Tagged: Big Hats, Entertaining, Fabulous Parties, Picnics, Teatime, Whimsy

Poetic Interlude XVIII

 Re-Run

As cocky grins push back my cheeks

And hands grope for – a pen,

I recollect the recent weeks:

I am in love, again.

Another boy eclipsed my sense;

My judgement fled before his face.

I stare, and with intent intense,

My pulse and pining interlace.

I could declare him peerless, true,

Or hymn his lips and teeth and eyes.

Let perjured poetry ensue!

I’ll sing him all the sweetest lies.

I am no cooing turtle-dove;

I swore that I’d stay cold, and coy.

I hate that I’m in love with Love!

Same old troubles, different boy.

The River

Champagne, cream, and blood-red rose:

All marks of corporate greed;

I’ll knock you, lad, flat on your back -

I need to taste your seed.

Romance may suffice for some,

Born on assembly line,

But mine is fierce and wild Love,

Drunk on river-wine.

Standardizing charm and grace;

Plastic, die-cut beauty.

Freeborn forest loneliness

Accepted (out of duty) -

Some sing in praise of Concrete Jove,

Hymn Circuitry sublime,

But mine are nymphs of field and grove,

Drunk on river-wine.

Love is more than motorcars

And imagery of Venus;

Love is soul caressing soul,

And nothing left between us.

Ancient, then, I name the bond,

And thus, convention, slaughter:

Let me love whoe’er I will,

Drunk on river-water.

Tagged: Dating, Love, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Romance, Writing

Post the Eighty-Sixth: The Renaissance Faire

Yesterday, Gentle Reader, I realized a terrible truth: I have wasted spent precisely one year of my life on what would become the Washington Midsummer Renaissance Faire. This year that I’ve spent – spread out over the last twelve – includes 24 hours of 7 days of 52 weeks. It’s a significant portion of my life, and I’ve spent most of it as head of the household that I run ran. This year, King Edmund I of Paisley Glen is hanging up his crown.

When I first realized I was a queen.

By the time you read this, I will be greeting old friends, setting up camp, and preparing for our Opening Ceremony.

The ceremony, during set-up, involves this jacket.

It also involves a monkey at the organ, if that helps spark your imagining of how we roll. Also, that’s a real organ, albeit electric, and we use it for dramatic music.

Today marks the first night of my last year at this event, and I’d like to mark the occasion by telling you a little about our silly little household. After all, the bulk of my adult life is tied up in it. It fostered my love for costuming, for history, for not complying with the demands of traditional lifestyles.

PICTURED: Not a traditional lifestyle.

In my teens, the faire started out a few miles from my parent’s house. Naturally, we’d end up there – there is very little to do, in a rural summer, when you don’t drive. I’m not exactly Opie, after all. After a year or two, we founded our household, Paisley Glen – named for the bright pink dollar-per-yard fabric we festooned in the foyer.

Seen in the background here

Oh, yes – our encampment had a foyer – as well as a picket fence, a swimming pool, etcetera, etcetera.

Not joking.

The next year, we were camped at what became our traditional corner – the ground there became our right. At the corner of Paisley Lane and Paisley Avenue, we opened our doors, and opened our eyes to what we would become – when the wind blew my tent into another encampment, we annexed it, calling it Paisley Poland, which would become the first of our duchies. We refused to recognize anyone else’s sovereignity, making other leaders dukes and duchesses of our realm – including the head of the whole damned faire. This year – 2002, I believe – was where I connected with Ex-Husband outside of school for the first time, and we shared an illicit bottle of Peach Arbour Mist.

This is what Paisley Glen looks like during the heat of the day.

When the faire changed owners and names, years later, it was a bit of a wrench – the original owners had purchased a large woodland area, intending to hold the faire there, but the site wasn’t ready – the new owners hadn’t taken over yet. This year, there was no faire, but that didn’t stop us: We held a picnic in a public park in our garb, we held a household-only camping event at somebody’s house, we camped in our designated spot at the soon-to-be-lost new site. We did what we always did: we were utterly ridiculous in the face of reality.

In the new country, after the coup that left the faire with new owners and a new name, we followed the faire: this was our home event, even if it had moved and changed. By this point, we were well established; completely distinct from other households, we were the place to party, due to the generosity of our open bar. We had proper, upholstered, furniture, not just camp chairs. We claimed to be Victorian time-travelers, re-enacting the Elizabethan age for a lark. Our costuming spanned five-hundred years, mixed and matched, and nobody minded. Not quite like the other ren-rats, we were well liked.

Immigration is exhausting.

After we attained the new site, we were constantly striving to be bigger and better than before. The Lord Von Hale has built us many magnificent set-pieces and structures over the years, including our portable bar, that grew out of my Majesty’s original booze-cage.

The original

The improvement. Obviously, there isn’t a photo of the current version. Dang. Also, please ignore the mess; I was making bloody maries. Oh, hey! Notice the same pink paisley drapery above my head?

A portable clock-tower – sixteen feet tall, with a belfry – has replaced the original muffin-dome.

This is the Muffin Dome. Please excuse the photos. This is either during set-up or during take-down.

Our silly mythology, peerage and parliament, our pretend customs and ceremonies, have grown, evolved, and changed. We even have a second generation – well, first and a half – of younger siblings who don’t remember a life without the Glen.

This is about five years into his Paisley Participation. Kid’s graduated high school, now.

They’ve grown up believing all the silly bullshit we spout, and take it as a solemn duty, almost as if Paisley Glen were the church they were raised in. It’s peculiar, and it’s wonderful.

Over the years, drama has increased, mounted up; there is tension between various factions; we play politics for fun, but sometimes those pretend politics are deadly serious. This is part of why I’m abdicating my crown; I’m done with the drama. The Glen, as much as I love it, has been holding me back; almost all of the founders of this institution have moved on. I need to, as well. This is why I’m leaving the comfort of our little household, where I’m regarded as a literal king; the world is wide, and I need to explore it. I’ll never do that, trapped in the habits of twelve years.

Goodbye, Paisley Glen. I love you.

Here are some additional photos, because – well, because of Nostalgia. Enjoy them, Gentle Reader.

My long hair is conducive to courtly love.

The official breakfast of Paisley Glen.

Our fireplace, and some ceramic portraits.

I’m so young, here. The MS paint editing shows the age of the photo.

This is an attractive outfit, if you’re blind. 2009 Yes, that’s a leather kilt.

Mr. C.W.L. Darling, the porn star, in his youth.

This is the other way that Paisley Glen looks during the day. Same pink fabric, on the right.

My first time. The turtleneck I’m wearing is stretch velvet, because that’s period. SHIT. I’m sixteen here, folks.

The official State Portrait, with all the Regalia.

Fun Fact: I have a hat that’s a dead pheasant.

This is a perfect photo of what Paisley Glen’s all about. Not about the drinking, but about the *toasting*. This, THIS, is what it’s all about. A campfire, some cocktails, and some sentimentality.

 

Tagged: Drinking, Nostalgia, Paisley Glen, Ren Faire