Tuesday, June 7, 2011

deedley deedley don't

Whilst cleaning my glorious 160 square foot apartment just this morning, I unearthed a smallish, unlined notebook, slightly moisture warped and tinted with dirt. My notebook from the first folklife I worked 5 years ago! What luck, what a staggering find! I immediately stopped my dusting and neatening and thumbed thru it. Standing there in my flip flops and cleaning shorts, I tucked the dust rag into my back pocket and prepared for a short and satisfying jaunt thru ye olde memory street. Mostly what I found were pretty generic notes on canopy misplacements, missing fence fabric, and where and when to meet a particular vendor. Interesting! Almost as interesting was to notice the steady decline in legibility of my particular scrawl. As days and hours progressed, my notes to self become increasingly fragmented, dare I go so far as to say belligerent. Toward the end, where it looks as if I or someone within my close vicinity had actually mistaken the bound paper to be edible, there is a brief, barely legible timeline of my last days working. Since there is no way to summarize the events in an accurate manner, I will include them here for you in their full entirety. Dear readers, beware, the account which you are about to be privy to is as riveting as it is harrowing. They can only but hint at the deplorable shape to which I was reduced to by prolonged exposure to folk music and very very little sleep. Read on, if you dare.

daY 9
8am why am i hear?
11am why ar all these people her?
201pm i am
415pm still
556pm here
740pm why

11:09am i listned to a banjo busker, and it made me cry. i love that bajno.
11:10am i hate that banjo plyer! i wanna hav sex wit banjo player!
11:14am and then smashed banjo against brick wall. hungry now.
11:18am just ate banjo player. . flossing teeth with banjo strings. . . need nap . .
5:16pm where am i? i stomcah hurt . .
7:21pm sp kdkfl ma ma skm diuiiiiiidiiiiiiidiiiiigiiiiireeeeeeddontttt!

Mercy! My brain must have somehow blocked those memories soon after, thereby allowing myself to subject myself to those same conditions every year since! I count myself lucky to be alive! . . that or I have somehow, over the years, reset my dials to accept the above as 'normal.' Or at the very least, 'just another festival.' See you at Bumbershoot?

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