The Unbearable Weirdness of Festivals

Posted on 26 July 2010

When I drove the two and a half hours to Floyd Fest, following the convo-fucking-luted directions from my GPS which had me rolling nearly three miles over a mountain on a washboard gravel road, I thought the most exciting thing that would happen to me would be the three legged dog that chased me a good ways down one of the roads I’d driven.

Silly me.

It’s been a long time since I hung with the freaks, and honestly, I have to modulate my own freak flag just to keep from getting off kilter. I do best (read: sanest) when my life is pretty reliable, steady, boring.

True, the writing flows best when things get shaken up, but not dying has become important to me, as has showering and getting dressed in real street clothes, so I try to stir gently, not shake. Who knows what comes first? Does the crazy drive the word train, or does the creativity drive me nuts? Does it matter?

It was so hot when I arrived at the festival with my nearly three-year-old, I wondered what the hell I’d been thinking, and how miserable a time I would have, despite my excitement over seeing my dear friend Amy, whom I hadn’t hugged in fifteen years. I eyed the people nervously, overwhelmed and weighted with the thought of trying so hard to be different, of needing to mark oneself as other. I remembered days of going to Dead shows, hanging out in the lots and feeling at home, and I wondered where that ease had gone. Was I so close the edge of discord that I couldn’t even venture into the fray without fearing I wouldn’t come back?

I was dressed the part of just a regular mom: overweight, tired, unkempt. I’m not twenty anymore, and have real, difficult responsibilities to attend to. How does anyone let them go, even for a minute?

But then Beckett started getting into the music, running and waving his arms in the air in his own little dance. We stopped at a stage with a great band from Richmond called The Hot Seats, because Beckett was intrigued by the bass. We have a book we read over and over, and in it a farmer makes his animals happy and his crops grow by playing music with his friends. Bear’s big bass goes whoom-whoom-whum, and it’s our favorite part of the book. This lead quickly to a request for a banjo (“I want one of those!”).

Then I saw this guy, this young, bald, shirtless guy, with a hula hoop. It’s probably not called a hula hoop anymore, and I think they sell them in head shops, but I’m not judging. He was doing amazing things with it, and he was so smooth in his movements it looked like an extension of his body. He had it on his neck, his arms, his legs, reversing directions. It was silver, and looked like a sparkling, fluid thing.

And he was smiling, like really smiling. Maybe he was high, or tripping. Probably. But maybe not. The thing was, he was happy. Completely at ease, with his dorky bald head sweaty and shining. I felt my limbs loosening, and I started rocking with the music. Then, suddenly, my feet were stomping, and I was dancing beside Beckett, my head moving, my tuchus wiggling, my face lit with joy.