My god.
It seriously took me all this time to figure out how to update my blog with the new set-up.
Oh, the Fringe.
It was absolutely the single most human endeavor I've ever participated in. And this, requiring no need for further explanation on my part, to anyone who'se ever been involved in anything fringe-like.
What am I saying, fringe-like? Jody, aka, God, Fringe Festival Technical Director and my fearless leader said it best; "There's nothing in the world like this, but this."
The fringe is best described, really, by it's translation: Festivale de l'Expression Libre. It's got theatre, stand-up, dance, performance art. People swallowing chainsaws and juggling babies. It's got princesses pooping in shoes and Brazillians dancing with roosters. It's the best place to be if you're in a What-The-Fuck kind of mood. I loved every, gruelling, terrible and fantastic minute of it.
I was never really a technician 'til that gig. It was 20, 16hr days, with no breaks. I had to run the lights and sound for 8 shows, at Mainline, most charming of makeshift-yet-somehow-permanent venues. We set up 12 venues, in 5 days, only 4 or 5 of which were actual theatres. It was fantastic to see how one can turn a bar, an abandoned swimmingpool, and a community hall (complete with Portugese Marching Band) into playable, fully equipped(ish) performance spaces.
Shows themselves were, as the lottery-system would allow, hit or miss. I had 2 golden ones, 3 mediocre ones, and 3 pretty awfull pieces. The people were all pure gold, technicians and performers all. Techies, are, however, the coolest kids at any party. Paid largely in beer (at a maximum of 1250$ for the whole gig, there'd better be a perk of some sort) and by necessity, like-minded. Dear god, how I miss it. And, gee, was I ever glad it was over.
Post fringe, I had 5 days to pack up all my belongings and move a few blocks up the street all by myself. The Fringe being the burn-out schedule it was, I was only home on average 4hrs a night (if at all) and failed to discover the swarm of cockroaches that descended upon my apartment. Getting my stuff away from them, needless to say, was a Hitchockian nightmare that I doubt I'll ever recover from. Armed with my lightsaber, and a big 'ole can of Raid, I was able to fish out my stuff, and move it up the hill without (to my knowledge) spreading the infestation. God, that was gross. *shudder*
I piled mystuff into a hired-guy-with-a-van's Van, and deposited it in my new digs, in a room that was not mine, while the previous tennants still lived there. I then went to my friend Kat's place for an hours nap, and proceeded to get into a pair of mini-vans with 10 other Theatre types and drove to straight to Newfoundland, without stopping for more than 10 minutes 'til Stephenville.
From Stephenville to Deer Lake for breakfast, and then, to Trinity Bay, most beautiful little coastal outlet you ever did see, where we had the privilege to catch Salt Water Moon, produced by Rising Tide. Set, on someone's back porch, in Trinity bay, we saw it played exactly there, on a real back porch, creaky screen door and all.
We then went to St. John's, to the Magnetic North Theatre Festival, and got our young, malleable little minds with, I think, 14 plays, 12 speakers, 12, soapbox discussions, workshops, pannels, schmoozing. My brain is mush. I wish I could remember full detail, or had some sorta pictorial evidence to show. We all lived in 2 small 4 1/2's. Nuts. I imagine in time, the stories will become more clear. We saw some wicked keen performance art happenings in Gros Morne National Park on the way back, and I was kindly dropped off in my hometown, where my mother made spaghetti for the whole class.
I love my mother. My aunts, my brothers. Everybody (with some, important exceptions) that force me to stop in Grand Falls, every time I'm back East. I do. But something about that place makes me physically ill. It could be that the small-town-vibe forces me to think inside a much smaller box than the one I've spent my whole adult life learning to think outside of. It could be the collective judgement I feel's passed on me by the entirety of North Western New Brunswick. Could be the echoes of the miserable childhood and cranky adolescence I spent there. Everytime I go, I'm reminded of why I left.
So, I had Warren come get me immediately.
The Man of My Dreams, calls an hour away from my parents house, and tells me not to worry, he's picked up everything we need.
Arrives with a dozen mangoes, an economy-size bottle of baby oil, and keys to a hotel room.
I'm in love.
We spend 4 fantastic days in a plumbing and power-less cabin in the woods, in thunderstorms, fighting about nothing, and making-up as if the fights were a real threat. We lock horns, but love passionately. I can't stand him, and know, that this, is likely how and why it will work.
I leave wanting to bake bread, buy the farm, and birth babies. Because alliteration is fun. And because I think I'm there. And I think this is like that. But. But.
Stupid Mileage.
And finally, back to Montreal.
I had originally intended to move in with Mr. Born and my troubled neice, who had finally conceded to some hip & liberal, sex-drug-n-rock'n-roll friendly stability, until 3 days before moving time, when she decided to run again. And that was the end of my dealings with her. Forced to pay half rather than a third of the rent for July, and therefore plunged into further than travel-induced poverty, We search for a roomate.
15 people stop by in 48 hours, and we finally decide to take in a Stray Australian, Nathan, who got all his shit stolen straight off the boat. Poor chap. He is jovial, quiet, easy-going and posesses a positively timely music collection.
My new apartment rocks, because my roomates are so chill, and inclusive. We sit around the dinner table and eat together. We watch movies in the livingroom together. We hang out. We think deep thoughts, and have great talks.
I feel safe.
[/attention span]
Oh!
And I shaved my head. Still waiting on Shazzy for photographic evidence. Go tell 'er you wanna see.
I hate it. It's growing, though. It's gone from cancer-patient to short-but-chic, but it's not at all me.
It seriously took me all this time to figure out how to update my blog with the new set-up.
Oh, the Fringe.
It was absolutely the single most human endeavor I've ever participated in. And this, requiring no need for further explanation on my part, to anyone who'se ever been involved in anything fringe-like.
What am I saying, fringe-like? Jody, aka, God, Fringe Festival Technical Director and my fearless leader said it best; "There's nothing in the world like this, but this."
The fringe is best described, really, by it's translation: Festivale de l'Expression Libre. It's got theatre, stand-up, dance, performance art. People swallowing chainsaws and juggling babies. It's got princesses pooping in shoes and Brazillians dancing with roosters. It's the best place to be if you're in a What-The-Fuck kind of mood. I loved every, gruelling, terrible and fantastic minute of it.
I was never really a technician 'til that gig. It was 20, 16hr days, with no breaks. I had to run the lights and sound for 8 shows, at Mainline, most charming of makeshift-yet-somehow-permanent venues. We set up 12 venues, in 5 days, only 4 or 5 of which were actual theatres. It was fantastic to see how one can turn a bar, an abandoned swimmingpool, and a community hall (complete with Portugese Marching Band) into playable, fully equipped(ish) performance spaces.
Shows themselves were, as the lottery-system would allow, hit or miss. I had 2 golden ones, 3 mediocre ones, and 3 pretty awfull pieces. The people were all pure gold, technicians and performers all. Techies, are, however, the coolest kids at any party. Paid largely in beer (at a maximum of 1250$ for the whole gig, there'd better be a perk of some sort) and by necessity, like-minded. Dear god, how I miss it. And, gee, was I ever glad it was over.
Post fringe, I had 5 days to pack up all my belongings and move a few blocks up the street all by myself. The Fringe being the burn-out schedule it was, I was only home on average 4hrs a night (if at all) and failed to discover the swarm of cockroaches that descended upon my apartment. Getting my stuff away from them, needless to say, was a Hitchockian nightmare that I doubt I'll ever recover from. Armed with my lightsaber, and a big 'ole can of Raid, I was able to fish out my stuff, and move it up the hill without (to my knowledge) spreading the infestation. God, that was gross. *shudder*
I piled mystuff into a hired-guy-with-a-van's Van, and deposited it in my new digs, in a room that was not mine, while the previous tennants still lived there. I then went to my friend Kat's place for an hours nap, and proceeded to get into a pair of mini-vans with 10 other Theatre types and drove to straight to Newfoundland, without stopping for more than 10 minutes 'til Stephenville.
From Stephenville to Deer Lake for breakfast, and then, to Trinity Bay, most beautiful little coastal outlet you ever did see, where we had the privilege to catch Salt Water Moon, produced by Rising Tide. Set, on someone's back porch, in Trinity bay, we saw it played exactly there, on a real back porch, creaky screen door and all.
We then went to St. John's, to the Magnetic North Theatre Festival, and got our young, malleable little minds with, I think, 14 plays, 12 speakers, 12, soapbox discussions, workshops, pannels, schmoozing. My brain is mush. I wish I could remember full detail, or had some sorta pictorial evidence to show. We all lived in 2 small 4 1/2's. Nuts. I imagine in time, the stories will become more clear. We saw some wicked keen performance art happenings in Gros Morne National Park on the way back, and I was kindly dropped off in my hometown, where my mother made spaghetti for the whole class.
I love my mother. My aunts, my brothers. Everybody (with some, important exceptions) that force me to stop in Grand Falls, every time I'm back East. I do. But something about that place makes me physically ill. It could be that the small-town-vibe forces me to think inside a much smaller box than the one I've spent my whole adult life learning to think outside of. It could be the collective judgement I feel's passed on me by the entirety of North Western New Brunswick. Could be the echoes of the miserable childhood and cranky adolescence I spent there. Everytime I go, I'm reminded of why I left.
So, I had Warren come get me immediately.
The Man of My Dreams, calls an hour away from my parents house, and tells me not to worry, he's picked up everything we need.
Arrives with a dozen mangoes, an economy-size bottle of baby oil, and keys to a hotel room.
I'm in love.
We spend 4 fantastic days in a plumbing and power-less cabin in the woods, in thunderstorms, fighting about nothing, and making-up as if the fights were a real threat. We lock horns, but love passionately. I can't stand him, and know, that this, is likely how and why it will work.
I leave wanting to bake bread, buy the farm, and birth babies. Because alliteration is fun. And because I think I'm there. And I think this is like that. But. But.
Stupid Mileage.
And finally, back to Montreal.
I had originally intended to move in with Mr. Born and my troubled neice, who had finally conceded to some hip & liberal, sex-drug-n-rock'n-roll friendly stability, until 3 days before moving time, when she decided to run again. And that was the end of my dealings with her. Forced to pay half rather than a third of the rent for July, and therefore plunged into further than travel-induced poverty, We search for a roomate.
15 people stop by in 48 hours, and we finally decide to take in a Stray Australian, Nathan, who got all his shit stolen straight off the boat. Poor chap. He is jovial, quiet, easy-going and posesses a positively timely music collection.
My new apartment rocks, because my roomates are so chill, and inclusive. We sit around the dinner table and eat together. We watch movies in the livingroom together. We hang out. We think deep thoughts, and have great talks.
I feel safe.
[/attention span]
Oh!
And I shaved my head. Still waiting on Shazzy for photographic evidence. Go tell 'er you wanna see.
I hate it. It's growing, though. It's gone from cancer-patient to short-but-chic, but it's not at all me.
VIEW 8 of 8 COMMENTS
Yeah it's not terribly dirty.