from Happy Dog on LJ 2/13/06
The came to me from the “Reader’s List”. I loved it so much I wanted to remember it, and to share it with those other creatives I love.

renaissance

(originally posted by [info]happydog)

I learned a lot from the Johari Meme, and thank you all for playing. There is one recurrent theme: I underrate myself. Who would have guessed, right?

Went to Barnes and Noble this weekend. Got the usual Archaeology magazine, and then picked up a magazine called Renaissance. This is how much of a sucker I am for belly dancers; I got it because it had one on the cover. Along with headlines about the Rom, so I figured it was a historical magazine.

Well, it is, sorta, but it’s mostly aimed toward Renaissance Faire people and SCA-type folks.

I have a confession. In the past I have made a lot of fun of RenFaire and SCA people. I gripe and groan at them and have said the usual things about “people avoiding reality” and made fun of them calling themselves “Lord” and “Lady” and all the rest.

But really, as I was looking through the magazine I realized that they have created an alternate way of going through life, and that I was being mean if I shortchanged them because of it. And really they had transformed themselves, or rather let something in them out. Look at the woman on one page, for example. During the week maybe she is a secretary or middle management for a company, but here, at the RenFaire she is now a fairy, a green fairy, and you know, she does look like something very Froudian indeed.

There are other people pictured throughout who are dressed up in corsets and bustiers and what not, and guys in jerkins and um, buskins, or…other clothes that I don’t know the names of.

But they sure as hell seem to be having fun, a lot of it at that.

I had to think about whether maybe some of my making fun of them was actually a bit of envy.

Who says (I asked myself), who says that it’s silly to transform yourself, or to let your inner knight or lord or lady or warrior princess or elf or fairy or sprite feel the air for once? I know who says it’s silly: the dark and grim society we live in, the world where everything is regarded as profit, the Moloch world as Allen Ginsberg named it. The world where they want you to shut up and not question and shop Wal-Mart and not think a whole lot, because your purpose is to purchase and work, purchase and work, purchase and work.

That world. That’s the world that makes fun of the RenFaire people and the SCA people. And the witches. And the pierced and tattooed people, the people who dress up and dance, the ones who live outside what they feel on the inside.

I was and am asking myself: am I really part of that grey world? the Moloch world? No, I’m not. I may pass in the grey Moloch world but I have never been comfortable in that world and I have never loved that world. I want spark, I want fire dancing, I want strange thoughts, I want to watch the fringe shimmer on the edge of the dancer’s skirt, I want to step into another world that is brighter and more alive than this grey puddle.

These people make excursions there, they go there, they make time for who they are; the woman who dresses like a fairy complete with wings is for all intents and purposes a fairy, for however long that she decides to be one, and that is a part of her that she honors and loves and decorates. I used to say that wasn’t “really” how people are. But if her fairy self is not real, what is?

I no longer wish to limit people, I no longer want to live in the grey world, and I no longer wish to make fun of the people who refuse to live in the grey world. Because I know I want out of it myself, out of the grey world.

so was I suckered by the steady gaze of a very attractive belly dancer on the cover of a magazine? or was that maybe the goddess in another guise getting my attention with her zils and saying: listen up, you don’t know half of what you think you know and the other half of that is all mystery?

bring on the mystery then, let me know, maybe it’s time to lead with my heart and trust it at long last.

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