21 January 2014

Guest Post: by Baroness Brise (aka: my friend Kendra) at Pennsic

Pale orange morning arrives on a golden drop of dew, the whir of golf carts going by. Last night's festivities on the battlefield have long since made way for hangovers. Bleary eyed travelers are still arriving as they have been through the night--minivans, pick-ups, school buses packed to the point of madness.

Shortly, what was once a big field will be a small medieval town with majestic gates, pavilions, yurts and towering camp walls of fabric, wood and extruded plastic (which doesn't have a poetic sound to it but it's a church with stained glass, a rhythm all its own). Soon there will be Lords and Ladies dressed in garb, nicer than their Sunday's best. Kings and Queens processing about, shimmering in the sun--crowns almost too bright. Knights making believe they are something a little better, a little more refined than they actually are--for no other reason than it sometimes feels good to be that guy just for a little while. Night will eventually nestle itself on a bed of wood smoke, lulled in by the beat of drums. Few fires are without dancers, barefoot in the dust. Painted faces, feet and fingers move like liquid. One by one the campfires will go out as Pennsic falls asleep in tents nicer than some homes--rugs, pillows four poster beds with tapestries all around.

Tomorrow the sun will rise again and we will do the same as we have all done for decades. Each a little better than before. I love this Pennsic town.

For now there are things to do. Territory to negotiate. Lines to draw in the dirt--the same lines we negotiate and draw every year with the same neighbors.

It's not all drunken assholes. It's not all risk and liability. There is beauty here you will never find anywhere else.

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