We begin again! Our travels today took us through 4 states in 5 rides.
The first, from Wisconsin to Illinois, came from my parents. My mother (and father, too, I'm sure, but he's not as vocal about it) worried about us all the way down, and was even making contingency plans for if we didn't get a single ride all day.
They dropped us at an Oasis (a gas station and shopping area along the tollway - significant because one usually has to pay to exit the tollway, but since you're staying on the tollway and there's no access from the oasis to the rest of the world, it's free to get off at). We wandered over to the entrance, pausing to ask a truck driver and hearing he was going some other way. We stuck our thumbs out, and saw nary 5 minutes go buy before Harold stopped to pick us up. Harold is a carpentry contractor at O'Hare who was commuting back to his Indiana home. Harold took us our first 60 miles, and got us off to a quick start. He spent his teens in the Philippines. He worries about his kids and where they're going.
In Indiana, we got a ride from Mike after only 6 minutes. Mike loves to travel, and told us about the places he wants to go. He took us about 30 miles, to Laporte, IN. Mike was involved in gangs. He worries about his kid and how he feels about where he is.
Mike dropped us at a pretty dead entrance, so we waited on the side of the highway, in the grass median between the entrance and the roadway. Across the road, a dead car was being towed. After about 15 minutes, an official looking truck slowly approached.
"Are we going to be hassled?" I asked Stina. "I think..." I answered myself, but as the truck arrived and stopped, the face inside didn't look like it had any chastising to do.
"Where are you trying to get to?" Amy asked.
"New York City," I responded.
"I can't take you that far, but I can take you to the end of my zone, about 20 miles."
As we rode with Amy, we learn that she had, indeed, saved us from probable harassment. She'd overheard a co-worker radioing in to alert the Highway staff to the presence of 2 hitchhikers, and so she stopped to help us out instead of leaving us to the mercy of the highway patrol. Now that's what I call good citizenship! Amy likes to go to Miami. She referenced La Cage aux Folles (okay, not really... she referenced The Birdcage), and we talked a little about Albert. I'm sure she, like all people, worries, but it didn't come up. I don't think she has children either... see a pattern?
She dropped us off at an Oasis, and just as we got out of the truck, Dan approached us. He'd seen us earlier, and briefly paused to learn more. We took advantage of the opportunity and asked him for a ride. He obliged. He thought maybe we were Phishheads (odd, since Harold had dropped us off at an Oasis, and a man exiting the Oasis with two dogs had asked us about the fish; were we there because of fish...?). We are not, but we learned about Phish the band and that there had been a big concert this past weekend in the Alpine Valley, WI. Apparently there's currently a wave of hippies without cars exiting the area en masse, and so the assumption will be that a hitchhiker was at the concert. Not a bad reputation to have, no matter how false, if other Phishheads feel an affinity for you. Dan seems a reluctant, but most generous host. After giving us a ride, he offered to let us pitch our tent in his yard, then seemed to wrestle with himself, and ultimately opened his home to us, letting us sleep in the luxurious guest bedroom, offering us towels and this here internet that I'm using. He's offered to give us a ride back to the freeway in the morning. Dan has an adorable cat, works in insurance, travels regularly, and gave us a window into the world of a Phishhead. He worries that his neighbors would worry what their kids would think [about us camping on his lawn] and whether or not his pets get enough attention.
And so tomorrow morning we'll go grocery shopping and then head onwards towards NYC. If things keep going at this rate, we'll be in New York by Wednesday! Wish us luck!
Showing posts with label encounters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label encounters. Show all posts
Monday, June 22, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
A few thousand words (a pictures post)
Last night, I got my sick self out of bed, walked two and a half miles, and attended a free concert for the grand reopening of the 
It was a star-studded evening.
Wow. Just wow.
From Stina:
On Sunday last (same day as the good busking day), on the way home from busking we heard shouts coming from about a block away and went over to investigate. Brendan thought they were protest shouts, and he was right. A protest denouncing the bombing of Palestine was underway. Hundreds of people were marching down Decatur, waving Palestinian flags and signs that read
Later, the protesters claimed the ampitheater where the hip hop dancers perform and held an enthusiastic rally.
It was a star-studded evening.
Wow. Just wow.From Stina:
On Sunday last (same day as the good busking day), on the way home from busking we heard shouts coming from about a block away and went over to investigate. Brendan thought they were protest shouts, and he was right. A protest denouncing the bombing of Palestine was underway. Hundreds of people were marching down Decatur, waving Palestinian flags and signs that read
Later, the protesters claimed the ampitheater where the hip hop dancers perform and held an enthusiastic rally.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Adventures in Busking
Stina’s Stories:
On Saturday we set forth, stilts in hand, for a day filled with parades, meeting theatrey people, and enjoying numerous festivals going on in New Orleans. I’ll skip directly to the latter part of busking we did that day. There was a fringe festival going on this past weekend, and they had an area set up as headquarters where people could buy tickets and t-shirts and perform on a stage set up there. We were told it would be open on a first come first serve basis beginning at 5pm, so at 4:30pm or so we headed there so we could hopefully be first and perform a shortened version of the show we did for friends and family both in Seattle and Wisconsin.
There was a show for kids in progress when we arrived, a rather bizarre puppet show. As we waited for it to end, the weather was getting colder and colder and a few people had started to leave. Miss Led, the woman in charge of the stage area, was eager for us to perform and hurried to announce our show as soon as the puppet show was over, and thankfully people stuck around for it.
This was the first time we had a significant number of small children watching our show and they are quite the rowdy crowd. When Brendan started telling jokes, the kids started telling jokes back. When I pretended the balls were stuck in my hand, two kids jumped up and helped pull them out. It’s great how directly involved they get. I wonder if adult audiences should be more like that. But it’s not usually the right way to behave at a show and would throw the performers off, but maybe we need more shows that get the audience involved.
After our show we received a lot of positive feedback. Misled offered to help us set up a show if we come to town again on our travels, and people were very enthusiastic about what we had presented. It made us feel great and ready to do it again.
On Sunday we set forth once more, this time to do some street busking. We made a sign that says “Find us online at ANDJUGGLING .com” and “If you like what you see, feel free to give a tip” with an arrow pointing to the side where we set our hat. We went to Canal Street, which is at the entrance to the French Quarter and is a popular street for shopping and where a lot of people get off the streetcar. We found a spot on the sidewalk that looked good, and asked the shop closest if it was all right with them, got the ok, and began.
Kids again helped make us feel great. These three kids came by with a man who may have been their father or grandfather walking ahead of them. They stopped to see us juggle and we offered to tell them a story and they loved it, and wanted another, and then another. We told a story about a doll that got revenge on her child because her child never played with her, one about Spiderman, and one about Paul Bunyan scaring away the hurricanes from New Orleans. The adult wanted to move along then, but first he took our picture with the kids, gave us five dollars, and complimented us on what we were offering to the world. These are the moments that make us feel like we’re doing just what we should be doing.
Shortly after this, we realized there was another shop very nearby that we should have asked permission of, and when we did, the shopworker basically said we sounded really obnoxious and it would be great if we would move. So we walked around the corner, but the spot didn’t seem very good. No one was stopping and fewer people seemed to be passing. So we moved on again, this time to Bourbon Street, which is always humming.
There’s a story at Bourbon Street I’ll let Brendan tell, but suffice it to say for now that the rest of our evening was filled with rather negative experiences. It seems very nearly impossible not to take these to heart as much as we do the positive experiences, which leaves me feeling somewhat confused. Why do some people really enjoy the stories we tell and our method of entertainment, and others not? Do other street performers get such immediate feedback from their audiences, both positive and negative? When I don’t particularly care for a street performer’s style of music or artwork or whatever, I usually just walk on by without saying anything. But we got a guy who responded to our question of “Would you like to hear another story?” with “Will it be better than the last one?” I did just say I think audiences should be more interactive, but I’d rather it wasn’t in the form of negative feedback.
Our two days kind of equalize, but we’ll try to learn from both. There is some good to be gained from negative feedback. It tells us something we’re doing is making at least one person uncomfortable and then we can try to figure out ways to make our performance accessible to everyone, even that one nasty person. I just hope the positive feedback will soon far outweigh the negative.
Brendan’s Stories:
Stina got a good chunk of it hammered out above, there, but briefly, some moments for posterity:
Saturday: Unreal! We began the day by seeking out the Fringe Festival Parade. We arrived at the cross streets where the parade was to end, no parade, no people. Had we missed it? We wandered up the street, along the parade’s scheduled path. Was there another St. Claude Street? This one was 4-lanes with a median... it didn’t seem like a parade street to me, especially since it had no people standing on the side to see the parade. Walking a few blocks more, we and two other groups of people converged on a street corner and realized that the 5 of us were all looking for the parade and were baffled. We parted ways, wishing each other luck with parade-finding. Further along, we overheard at a bus stop potential passengers wondering why the bus was late, and hypothesizing that maybe there was another parade... yes, in fact some woman had heard maybe there was something or other like that. We see flashing lights. We sit out front of the Golden Arches, and for one block watch a parade with a marching band, stiltwalkers, and odd accoutrements. Another couple, this one with a ballsy dog, watches as well. The parade passes in 5 minutes, and we go on our merry way.
We head on stilts to the Fringe Festival tent. At the cross street where the tent is meant to be, we find friendly theatre people gathered around a fallen antique circus tent. We help put it back up. When we return later to perform (as mentioned in Stina’s blog), we find no tent. It has been given up on. (This should not be taken as any indication of the organization of the festival, which was very well received from what we noted by the standing room only attendance at the show we attended Sunday night.)
In that in-between time, during which the tent ripped and fell out of our sight, we attended the book fair going on along Frenchman Street. After walking past much of it and running into Nate’s roommate Jo (Nate is Jocelyn’s boyfriend), we ate and went into a bar that had turned itself into an impromptu host of booksellers and artists. Towards the back of the bar, I casually happened upon a Ms. Rippey of Honors Croquet League fame, and member of the whole bizarre interconnectedness that is the University of Washington classes of 2002-2006. She came to watch our performance later that evening and authored the phrase of the night, “German Air-conditioner Vandals”.
After running into our distinguished colleague, down the street we made our way one block to the buskers on the corner playing pretty (Accordion, Violin and Tuba with Dog-style) music. At this folkpunkfiddle venue, we happened upon Lisa from the chocolate shop I worked at in 2004 dancing in the streets. She invited us to attempt rope-jumping with her and her pals. Stina attempted double-dutch unsuccessfully but with great verve. Lisa also arrived to see us at the performance space later, but after watching the around-the-world marionette show for 30 minutes, went to get her coat and did not make it back in time to see us perform.
We performed at a chainlink fence between these two bits of Seattle surreality, and received verbal accolades from pausers and passersby.
Sunday: Not as Unreal, but every bit at experience-ful.
In addition to the 5 dollars made from the positive man and his 3 children, we made a few dollars performing for the waiting crowd outside The Lunatic King (the crowd that didn’t make it in to see that soldout show) and six cents on Bourbon Street from a guy who wished he had more to give because he really enjoyed our show.
The story that Stina has left for me to tell involves badscaryness, so if you don’t feel inclined to know of problems we face, feel free to stop reading this entry.
In our attempts to gather a crowd (or, in truth, even one audience member) we advertise that we have stories for people. Most people respond pleasantly to our invitations to our hear a story, even if the don’t stop. A very few are belligerent as they pass by, but of no concern. Some others offer their excuses: “Late for work”, “had a rough day”, “am too drunk/high”. The in-a-hurry ones we don’t try to stop, mostly. But we do appeal to the other two for their interest. Indeed, we hope we are pleasant and uplifting, and so someone who had had a rough day could find their day improved by pausing for a moment. Even more likely seem subjects of alcohol and drug enhancements. After all, “why not?” is usually an apt reason when inebriated.
On such group of individuals passed us headed towards Canal Street, and one man amongst them said “I’m too high”. We let them be. But then they approached our area again. An opportunity if I ever saw one.
“So, you’ve come back for a story,” I asked.
“Too high,” was again the response.
“We’ve got stories for people who are high and people who are low,” I cleverly replied.
At this point the man in the group who had not yet said anything to us turned on me.
“What’s your story, man?” he growled, “where do you get off calling us high?” He put down his beer bottle and rounded on me. “What’s your story? Why don’t you tell me your story.” He held his arm out as if to swing at me.
I had very little response. “We’re just peddling stories. Go on. You don’t have to hear them.” I had a moment of clarity, but instead of using it to prepare myself to duck, I prepared myself to be hit. I’m not known for my quick thinking in a crisis.
Luckily the friend who had been telling us he was high stepped in. “They were just making jokes, man.” He put his hand on his friends shoulder and guided him away.
Phew.
A man from the restaurant came out and told us we had to go, too... or something... and then something about the cops, maybe... I don’t know. I have a hard time understanding people when they’re giving me bad news, I tend to just hear their tone. At first, I thought he had just come out to sympathize with us, but as he ducked his head inside, I realized that I hadn’t understood, but had clearly detected the tone people use when they’re worried about confrontation. We had been involved in a commotion, and were now a liability to that sidewalk space.
You know, I’ve always scoffed at the phrase “mean people suck”, but they really do.
On a more pleasant and recreational note, we got to stop and visit with Eric at the Starbucks on the way home from BloominDeals (where we hope to buy costume pieces, and which is closed on Mondays and at 4:50 every other weekday), and now we’re off to Marxist Monday with Jocelyn and Nathan.
P.S. ornamental peppers are edible, juicy, delicious and SPICY!! (painfully so, attests Stina; delightfully so, attests Brendan)
On Saturday we set forth, stilts in hand, for a day filled with parades, meeting theatrey people, and enjoying numerous festivals going on in New Orleans. I’ll skip directly to the latter part of busking we did that day. There was a fringe festival going on this past weekend, and they had an area set up as headquarters where people could buy tickets and t-shirts and perform on a stage set up there. We were told it would be open on a first come first serve basis beginning at 5pm, so at 4:30pm or so we headed there so we could hopefully be first and perform a shortened version of the show we did for friends and family both in Seattle and Wisconsin.
There was a show for kids in progress when we arrived, a rather bizarre puppet show. As we waited for it to end, the weather was getting colder and colder and a few people had started to leave. Miss Led, the woman in charge of the stage area, was eager for us to perform and hurried to announce our show as soon as the puppet show was over, and thankfully people stuck around for it.
This was the first time we had a significant number of small children watching our show and they are quite the rowdy crowd. When Brendan started telling jokes, the kids started telling jokes back. When I pretended the balls were stuck in my hand, two kids jumped up and helped pull them out. It’s great how directly involved they get. I wonder if adult audiences should be more like that. But it’s not usually the right way to behave at a show and would throw the performers off, but maybe we need more shows that get the audience involved.
After our show we received a lot of positive feedback. Misled offered to help us set up a show if we come to town again on our travels, and people were very enthusiastic about what we had presented. It made us feel great and ready to do it again.
On Sunday we set forth once more, this time to do some street busking. We made a sign that says “Find us online at ANDJUGGLING .com” and “If you like what you see, feel free to give a tip” with an arrow pointing to the side where we set our hat. We went to Canal Street, which is at the entrance to the French Quarter and is a popular street for shopping and where a lot of people get off the streetcar. We found a spot on the sidewalk that looked good, and asked the shop closest if it was all right with them, got the ok, and began.
Kids again helped make us feel great. These three kids came by with a man who may have been their father or grandfather walking ahead of them. They stopped to see us juggle and we offered to tell them a story and they loved it, and wanted another, and then another. We told a story about a doll that got revenge on her child because her child never played with her, one about Spiderman, and one about Paul Bunyan scaring away the hurricanes from New Orleans. The adult wanted to move along then, but first he took our picture with the kids, gave us five dollars, and complimented us on what we were offering to the world. These are the moments that make us feel like we’re doing just what we should be doing.
Shortly after this, we realized there was another shop very nearby that we should have asked permission of, and when we did, the shopworker basically said we sounded really obnoxious and it would be great if we would move. So we walked around the corner, but the spot didn’t seem very good. No one was stopping and fewer people seemed to be passing. So we moved on again, this time to Bourbon Street, which is always humming.
There’s a story at Bourbon Street I’ll let Brendan tell, but suffice it to say for now that the rest of our evening was filled with rather negative experiences. It seems very nearly impossible not to take these to heart as much as we do the positive experiences, which leaves me feeling somewhat confused. Why do some people really enjoy the stories we tell and our method of entertainment, and others not? Do other street performers get such immediate feedback from their audiences, both positive and negative? When I don’t particularly care for a street performer’s style of music or artwork or whatever, I usually just walk on by without saying anything. But we got a guy who responded to our question of “Would you like to hear another story?” with “Will it be better than the last one?” I did just say I think audiences should be more interactive, but I’d rather it wasn’t in the form of negative feedback.
Our two days kind of equalize, but we’ll try to learn from both. There is some good to be gained from negative feedback. It tells us something we’re doing is making at least one person uncomfortable and then we can try to figure out ways to make our performance accessible to everyone, even that one nasty person. I just hope the positive feedback will soon far outweigh the negative.
Brendan’s Stories:
Stina got a good chunk of it hammered out above, there, but briefly, some moments for posterity:
Saturday: Unreal! We began the day by seeking out the Fringe Festival Parade. We arrived at the cross streets where the parade was to end, no parade, no people. Had we missed it? We wandered up the street, along the parade’s scheduled path. Was there another St. Claude Street? This one was 4-lanes with a median... it didn’t seem like a parade street to me, especially since it had no people standing on the side to see the parade. Walking a few blocks more, we and two other groups of people converged on a street corner and realized that the 5 of us were all looking for the parade and were baffled. We parted ways, wishing each other luck with parade-finding. Further along, we overheard at a bus stop potential passengers wondering why the bus was late, and hypothesizing that maybe there was another parade... yes, in fact some woman had heard maybe there was something or other like that. We see flashing lights. We sit out front of the Golden Arches, and for one block watch a parade with a marching band, stiltwalkers, and odd accoutrements. Another couple, this one with a ballsy dog, watches as well. The parade passes in 5 minutes, and we go on our merry way.
We head on stilts to the Fringe Festival tent. At the cross street where the tent is meant to be, we find friendly theatre people gathered around a fallen antique circus tent. We help put it back up. When we return later to perform (as mentioned in Stina’s blog), we find no tent. It has been given up on. (This should not be taken as any indication of the organization of the festival, which was very well received from what we noted by the standing room only attendance at the show we attended Sunday night.)
In that in-between time, during which the tent ripped and fell out of our sight, we attended the book fair going on along Frenchman Street. After walking past much of it and running into Nate’s roommate Jo (Nate is Jocelyn’s boyfriend), we ate and went into a bar that had turned itself into an impromptu host of booksellers and artists. Towards the back of the bar, I casually happened upon a Ms. Rippey of Honors Croquet League fame, and member of the whole bizarre interconnectedness that is the University of Washington classes of 2002-2006. She came to watch our performance later that evening and authored the phrase of the night, “German Air-conditioner Vandals”.
After running into our distinguished colleague, down the street we made our way one block to the buskers on the corner playing pretty (Accordion, Violin and Tuba with Dog-style) music. At this folkpunkfiddle venue, we happened upon Lisa from the chocolate shop I worked at in 2004 dancing in the streets. She invited us to attempt rope-jumping with her and her pals. Stina attempted double-dutch unsuccessfully but with great verve. Lisa also arrived to see us at the performance space later, but after watching the around-the-world marionette show for 30 minutes, went to get her coat and did not make it back in time to see us perform.
We performed at a chainlink fence between these two bits of Seattle surreality, and received verbal accolades from pausers and passersby.
Sunday: Not as Unreal, but every bit at experience-ful.
In addition to the 5 dollars made from the positive man and his 3 children, we made a few dollars performing for the waiting crowd outside The Lunatic King (the crowd that didn’t make it in to see that soldout show) and six cents on Bourbon Street from a guy who wished he had more to give because he really enjoyed our show.
The story that Stina has left for me to tell involves badscaryness, so if you don’t feel inclined to know of problems we face, feel free to stop reading this entry.
In our attempts to gather a crowd (or, in truth, even one audience member) we advertise that we have stories for people. Most people respond pleasantly to our invitations to our hear a story, even if the don’t stop. A very few are belligerent as they pass by, but of no concern. Some others offer their excuses: “Late for work”, “had a rough day”, “am too drunk/high”. The in-a-hurry ones we don’t try to stop, mostly. But we do appeal to the other two for their interest. Indeed, we hope we are pleasant and uplifting, and so someone who had had a rough day could find their day improved by pausing for a moment. Even more likely seem subjects of alcohol and drug enhancements. After all, “why not?” is usually an apt reason when inebriated.
On such group of individuals passed us headed towards Canal Street, and one man amongst them said “I’m too high”. We let them be. But then they approached our area again. An opportunity if I ever saw one.
“So, you’ve come back for a story,” I asked.
“Too high,” was again the response.
“We’ve got stories for people who are high and people who are low,” I cleverly replied.
At this point the man in the group who had not yet said anything to us turned on me.
“What’s your story, man?” he growled, “where do you get off calling us high?” He put down his beer bottle and rounded on me. “What’s your story? Why don’t you tell me your story.” He held his arm out as if to swing at me.
I had very little response. “We’re just peddling stories. Go on. You don’t have to hear them.” I had a moment of clarity, but instead of using it to prepare myself to duck, I prepared myself to be hit. I’m not known for my quick thinking in a crisis.
Luckily the friend who had been telling us he was high stepped in. “They were just making jokes, man.” He put his hand on his friends shoulder and guided him away.
Phew.
A man from the restaurant came out and told us we had to go, too... or something... and then something about the cops, maybe... I don’t know. I have a hard time understanding people when they’re giving me bad news, I tend to just hear their tone. At first, I thought he had just come out to sympathize with us, but as he ducked his head inside, I realized that I hadn’t understood, but had clearly detected the tone people use when they’re worried about confrontation. We had been involved in a commotion, and were now a liability to that sidewalk space.
You know, I’ve always scoffed at the phrase “mean people suck”, but they really do.
On a more pleasant and recreational note, we got to stop and visit with Eric at the Starbucks on the way home from BloominDeals (where we hope to buy costume pieces, and which is closed on Mondays and at 4:50 every other weekday), and now we’re off to Marxist Monday with Jocelyn and Nathan.
P.S. ornamental peppers are edible, juicy, delicious and SPICY!! (painfully so, attests Stina; delightfully so, attests Brendan)
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Chicago
Maybe there’s something about me, but I think there’s something about me taking a bus to see Jocelyn. No, I know what you’re all thinking, and no, I wasn’t sexually molested. Stina and I were simply accosted in Chicago by a very friendly lady who wanted to tell us things we didn’t need to know and to show us to places we didn’t need to go. Stina eventually gave her a dollar and bought her some cheese fries.
I don’t judge, but I do think it’s notable that there was more pot being smoked in Chicago than I’ve ever seen before, and that includes both Amsterdam and Hempfest. Our driver had it, a man stopped into the bus depot briefly to get out of the wind so he could light his roach, and I’m pretty sure the people I might otherwise have thought were a bit off their rockers were instead just high. They had that hard-to-follow train of thought that just almost seems on the verge of making sense, and then you ask a question and everything seems to fall apart. Also the self-interest of someone who knows they can’t quite grasp what you’re saying, so they might as well talk on the off chance that they’ll understand what they’re saying. Does that make sense? I’m not high.
I don’t judge, but I do think it’s notable that there was more pot being smoked in Chicago than I’ve ever seen before, and that includes both Amsterdam and Hempfest. Our driver had it, a man stopped into the bus depot briefly to get out of the wind so he could light his roach, and I’m pretty sure the people I might otherwise have thought were a bit off their rockers were instead just high. They had that hard-to-follow train of thought that just almost seems on the verge of making sense, and then you ask a question and everything seems to fall apart. Also the self-interest of someone who knows they can’t quite grasp what you’re saying, so they might as well talk on the off chance that they’ll understand what they’re saying. Does that make sense? I’m not high.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
We are STILTWALKERS! (...and juggling)
It is done.
We have hefted our stilt-strapped feet once now, and there is no going back. It's much harder to be our height now we've tasted the sky.
Brendan:
We finally finished all stilt construction last night, and this morning we ventured forth. Eager to see if I could still do it, I bounded up, took a few steps, sank into mushy grass and fell (as one is supposed to) plop, on my kneepads. Oh it was grand. Next, not having yet discovered the cause of my unsteadiness, I ventured again into mushy ground... realized my mistake and mucked my way out, still upright on stilts, to the delightfully hard and uneven concrete. Eventually I made my way to the stage and juggled a little while up there. Hard to do... Juggling is pretty natural to me now, but even so it requires some concentration, and most of my concentration was on staying upright. No better place to learn than uneven concrete, though, and learn we did.
Stina:
Brendan got up on his stilts first and it seemed okay. Scary looking, but okay. So I sat on the table and strapped on the stilts and Brendan was ready to help me stand and I thought I was ready to stand and then I said "No!" And I couldn't do it. I was petrified. We went to try again and again I said no. And I started crying because I was so afraid. But then the third time, or maybe the fourth, I stood, gripping Brendan's hands with all my will to live. And still gripping his hands he said try walking in place, so I did, and I was still petrified, and then I tried falling, and that was okay. Second time up I was a little less afraid and third time more so and then maybe the by the fifth or sixth time up I finally started feeling good and was able to walk a bit by myself, with Brendan's hands at easy reaching distance. And now I know I can do it.
Last night we went to bed dreaming of roaring crowds filled with thrilled stilt and juggling enthusiasts, and it happened today. People are mesmerized by tallness. The man on the corner on his cell phone as Brendan walked home in stilts related the experience of seeing me second-by-second. He was fascinated (and gave him an extra 6 inches he didn't really have). The people from Pac Med on their smoke break put down their books and halted their conversations to watch us take a turn round good 'ol Jose P.
Mr. Rizal, I think, was proud to see us circle him.
We have hefted our stilt-strapped feet once now, and there is no going back. It's much harder to be our height now we've tasted the sky.
Brendan:
We finally finished all stilt construction last night, and this morning we ventured forth. Eager to see if I could still do it, I bounded up, took a few steps, sank into mushy grass and fell (as one is supposed to) plop, on my kneepads. Oh it was grand. Next, not having yet discovered the cause of my unsteadiness, I ventured again into mushy ground... realized my mistake and mucked my way out, still upright on stilts, to the delightfully hard and uneven concrete. Eventually I made my way to the stage and juggled a little while up there. Hard to do... Juggling is pretty natural to me now, but even so it requires some concentration, and most of my concentration was on staying upright. No better place to learn than uneven concrete, though, and learn we did.
Stina:
Brendan got up on his stilts first and it seemed okay. Scary looking, but okay. So I sat on the table and strapped on the stilts and Brendan was ready to help me stand and I thought I was ready to stand and then I said "No!" And I couldn't do it. I was petrified. We went to try again and again I said no. And I started crying because I was so afraid. But then the third time, or maybe the fourth, I stood, gripping Brendan's hands with all my will to live. And still gripping his hands he said try walking in place, so I did, and I was still petrified, and then I tried falling, and that was okay. Second time up I was a little less afraid and third time more so and then maybe the by the fifth or sixth time up I finally started feeling good and was able to walk a bit by myself, with Brendan's hands at easy reaching distance. And now I know I can do it.
Last night we went to bed dreaming of roaring crowds filled with thrilled stilt and juggling enthusiasts, and it happened today. People are mesmerized by tallness. The man on the corner on his cell phone as Brendan walked home in stilts related the experience of seeing me second-by-second. He was fascinated (and gave him an extra 6 inches he didn't really have). The people from Pac Med on their smoke break put down their books and halted their conversations to watch us take a turn round good 'ol Jose P.
Mr. Rizal, I think, was proud to see us circle him.
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