Cantiga: Michelle's Blog

Nonday April 4: On Leaving Florida
I'm back at the Blue Moon, a private property owned by several rennies. A
little while ago I thought I wouldn't return for at least another year, if
ever. And here I am, back a month later and then just a week after that.
Now I understand why "rennies don't say goodbye, they say say-you-later."
Long tearful goodbyes just make the parting harder to deal with, and make
you feel silly if you end up bumping into people again soon. When I left
the Deerfield Beach faire I told Mark I was sad it was over and he said,
"but Michelle, you're just getting started!"

Friday April 1

"The other day my mother called; we talked about this and that and then
she asked me if I was still painting. Painting? Of course-- I'm
living in one!
Playing with Cantiga is like hyper-art, or speed art, or something.
There is a lot to consider-- focal point, contrast, tone, mark-making,
mood, technique-- except it all happens so fast that if you start
thinking, you've already screwed up. It's like someone telling you that
you've only got three minutes to make a painting in front of an audience--
and you have to make it with three or four or five other people sharing
the same canvas without speaking a word to eachother. You have to do it
without hitting eachother or stepping on eachother or making any more
marks than anybody else-- and you have to look like you're enjoying
yourself because, hello, you're on camera!
So art informs my music which informs my art-- now that I'm playing so
much music, I'm a better painter, and the better my painting gets, the
better my music."

Thursday March 31

I'm back in Alachua, FL where I first met the band. Driving down the road
at night and not sure where to turn, I saw the sign "Blue Moon: Monastery
and Primate Research Facility-- not for the feint of heart." I thought,
yeah, that seems like what I'm looking for.

The air is cool and smells like Wisteria. The bugs don't bite, the stars
are peeking through the forest which drips with Spanish moss, and every
time I come here something new is blooming. I stayed up late talking
about aliens again, and as I made my way to the barn/art studio to go to
sleep, I passed by a campfire where someone thought it would be cool to
try to play the drums.

I awoke to a rooster crowing... wait, no, to the sound of my cell phone
alarm which must have woken up the rooster. Had a big breakfast of
organic eggs from cage free happy chickens before embarking on a 14 mile canoe trip in beautiful North
Florida sunshine during the turtle mating season. They were everywhere,
lazing on logs with the sun gleaming off their wet shells, plopping into
the water as we rowed by.



We saw a man who goes by "Naked Ed" and lives in a forest cove in the
river which is only accessible by canoe. He sits on a bench with his feet
in the water and the sign below him reads "I can't cast the first stone--
can you?" A little past him are a couple picnic tables barely sticking
out of the water with plastic chairs half floating, leaned up against the
tables. A clock is nailed to a tree in the middle of the cove. Very
surreal. Someone takes a naked dip in the spirit of freedom, the rest of
us have lunch, and as all the canoes and kayaks and people come in and out
of the cove, Ed just sits there, smiling.

Someone told me he couldn't walk, and when he swam in the spring it
rehabilitated him and so he feels compelled to live there are protect the
spring. I went swimming in a couple of the springs there and sometimes
the water was so clean I could drink and open my eyes under the water to
perhaps as much as 20 feet below.

The current was incredibly strong, and sometimes the river took us places
we hadn't planned on visiting or didn't want to go. Sometimes I was stuck
with people I didn't want to be stuck with. But the river has a sense of
humor and if you're willing to be playful and let it play tricks on you
you, you can adapt to almost anything and have a great time... just like being on the road.

<Monday (or "Nonday" as it is known in Rennyville) March 28

A young violinist recently asked me if I ever make mistakes. Yes, I'm
always making mistakes, I told her. I just don't worry about them.
People come to enjoy the music, not because they're waiting for you
to mess up.
...Of course, when I told her that, I didn't have to do a live radio
show the following day!

Last Friday I was on the radio for the first time ever... I really had
no idea what to expect, and when I got the 5-4-3-2-1-you're on signal
I wasn't entirely certain my knees would support me. How could I
possibly let loose and improvise if a little voice in the back of my
head kept saying "this better be good!" But Bill Dudley is of course a
super cool guy and made us feel right at home (ok, well, as much as he
could anyway-- I don't know about your home but mine doesn't have
microphones pointing at me.) So I told myself I had better take my own
advice... I'm just going to play.
Mistakes are even kind of charming... they make the experience more
human and real. So even though I wasn't 100% satisfied with this and
that I definitely had a good time; no recording compares to the
energy and excitement of a live performance, both for the musicians
and the audience. And I can't wait to do another radio show... it
can only get better!

(Image by Chris Brown)

March 24, 2005
Since I drove down from Boston, MA to Deerfield Beach, FL several weeks
ago to play with Cantiga, I've come to appreciate many things I had previously taken for granted: things like clean drinking water, decent food, a place to practice my fiddle when it's raining-- and privacy. I'm usually surrounded by people, something that is taking me some getting used to. Everyone sees just about everything I do here: when I wake up in the morning, what, when, how and where I eat, how I spend my time/money... and since most of the Rennies (Renaissance Faire workers) are older than me, they sometimes all too freely comment on my lifestyle choices!

Then again, even though I've only been on the road a few weeks, I can't
imagine living any other way. There's a lot to like about it-- sleeping under the stars, playing music all the time, having time to draw the landscapes and beautiful people I meet... (I am an illustrator as well as a fiddler) and how even when I'm sick and feeling awful, when I'm on stage and see people in the audience smiling or crying or dreaming (or even when they leave in the middle of a song to see the firebreather, that's ok too) a little voice inside of me says, WHOA, I can't believe this is my life!

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