Stage Fright Vignettes: In Which I Am A Mess

17 Jun

We start recording tonight. The Kickstarter was successful beyond our imaginings, we’ve rehearsed and prepped and planned, and in about an hour and a half we’ll get started. I spent the day half-heartedly working on some other deadlines, rehearsing some more for songs later in the week, watching trash TV (hi Riverdale, you source of delight and shame) and making myself eat more out of the knowledge that I have to eat rather than out of any appetite at all. I have to eat, ya know. If I don’t eat I’ll wind up being starving the second the nerves wear off (halfway through the second song). So I ate. A little bit.

It’s the third day of recording. Things are going so well! We got through so much in the last two days, songs we have every right to be proud of. Tonight we add instruments. I am not ready. We rehearsed for four solid hours (including the half hour I held a bag of frozen pomegranate seeds in my aching fret hand), then got in the car. My hands are shaking, and drenched in sweat. I have to struggle for every single chord; they’ve all flown out of my head. I’m going to throw up, or die, or die while throwing up, or throw up while dying.  

I have no idea what day it is, but I know I’ve been staring at the microphone in front of me like it’s going to eat my face if I look away. Fuck you, microphone. You’re not going to eat MY face. I won’t blink. I–oh shit, I definitely missed that line GODDAMNIT MICROPHONE.

I am splicing together a short promo to send to some faires, and had to bribe myself with a glass of wine for each separate video clip of myself I watched with the sound on because I hate listening to recordings of myself.

My bandmate tries to tell me everything will be fine and I tell her, in as many words, to shut the fuck up. She tries to tell me she’s really enjoying this process and is happy and proud and I sort of say “ok?” like I’ve suddenly lost the ability to speak English.

I am starving because I didn’t eat enough.

My husband tries to hug me and tell me he believes everything will turn out well and I yell at him to leave me alone and stomp off to take a very hot bath and drink wine for dinner (again).

We’re about to listen to a few tracks to see if the storm on Wednesday affected them in any real way. I’m pretty sure I’m going to burst into flames.

The sound guy, a professional musician I like and respect a lot, is telling me that he likes everything we’ve done, and I am fantasizing about a giant hedgehog appearing out of nowhere and devouring my head so I never have to play guitar in front of people ever again.

My mammal brain acknowledges that after a lot of hard work, practice, and organization, and yes, a lot of fun moments, these records sound pretty good! My lizard brain has retreated under a rock to pray for the swift coming of Zephelepod, Destroyer of Worlds, Bringer of Oblivion, Crusher of Embarrassing Moments Beneath His Mighty Cloven Hoof.

Ze Zings I ‘Ave to Do for My Art

8 Jun

Watching/editing videos of myself got me like…

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My Brain is a Liar

27 May

Yesterday was a bad day.

The last few weeks have been full of change, and much of it has been excellent change. I picked up a freelance writing gig. I quit my job, which I’ve hated for a year and a half, and I did it a few months ahead of schedule because I picked up that freelance writing gig. I drank up the courage to debut a new ren faire act. I planned two albums and launched a Kickstarter with my singing partner of six years. And then I went on a short, cheap trip to Charleston, a city I like a lot, with mr. biscuit, who I also like a lot, and between a five hour drive and two hours struggling to get around an unfamiliar city all the anxiety that I had been struggling with bubbled over like poison, and after a day spent picking fights, I started crying on the streets of Charleston because we had accidentally walked two blocks in the wrong direction on a beautiful evening in a charming, walkable city.

My new writing gig has me doing a lot of bullet-point blogs, so let’s break all this down in a style I’m becoming used to.

  • I quit my job. This is an objectively positive thing. As soon as I made the decision, I felt a huge weight lift from my shoulders. Giving my notice brought a similar feeling of relief. I’ve been so happy since.
    • As I said, I’ve hated this job for a year and a half of the two years I’ve been working there, and been trying to find a new job for almost as long. I had finally given up on the job search, because there are only so many Almosts that I could bring myself to tolerate, but had contemplated self-harm to get out of work. More than once.
    • mr. biscuit got a big promotion at work, which came with a substantial raise that was not quite enough to replace my lost income were I to quit, but we had decided that I would leave my job at the end of July anyway and we would make it work.
    • When a friend turned me on to a freelance writing gig at her company, which I could do from home without having to talk to customers or put on shoes, we decided to push that date up.
    • My last day at my full time job is June 1st, and I’m thrilled. Between graduation and summer classes starting, I have been yelled at half a dozen times over the last three weeks and cried at work four times. I’m done. I’m so done. This place has poisoned my mind for long enough. It is time to cast it into the fire.
    • I’m also crushingly nervous. Quitting means a pretty substantial decrease in our income. That really only means that we will have to limit our spending, which a) I am bad at and b) I do not enjoy, but we’re in no danger of starving on the street or not having shoes. We haven’t had time to sit down and hash out what the new budget will look like, though, which is increasing my sense of impending doom. Objectively I know that we will be fine. mr. biscuit is making more than he ever has before, and the less miserable I am the less incentive I have to try and spend my way out of misery.
    • But still.

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  • I launched a Kickstarter. I’ve been singing with a friend for six+ years under the name The Voices of Virtue, and for a majority of that time we’ve been saying “man, we need to record an album.” About a month ago she sent me an email saying essentially “Let’s do this shit.” And we are doing it.
    • This led to me finally getting my shit together and launching a new renaissance festival act: SERFs, Inc., starring Lilly Bragg, Village Protest Singer. I’ve been working on a peasant revolution since my first year as a faire performer, way back in 2004, and I finally get to start using jokes and songs I’ve been hanging onto for so long. It’s amazing. It’s exhilarating. I feel very strongly about protest music, songs of revolution and social justice and the like, and I’m learning to play the guitar, and I just love it all. It feels so important and so useful, and my God these songs are so good.
    • My partner’s character is named Prudence and at the time mine was named Esperanza, and we tend to bawdy songs, so our group name made a lot more sense at the time than it does now that I’ve officially begun performing under the name Lilly, but we still do a lot of bawdy stuff, so it works out. Just not as well.
    • Our Kickstarter is going really well. I don’t know how I imagined it would go so I can’t tell you it’s exceeding my expectations, but I do know that on day six of 18, we are almost 40% funded.
    • The idea that people want to hear music that I’m making is absolutely thrilling.
    • The idea that people want to hear music that I’m making is also absolutely terrifying. I’ve been making music my whole damn life and I’m still terrified. Every single time. The amount of nerves varies, but I have never not been nervous before a performance.
    • Not once.20170527_105355
  • I went to Charleston. mr. scone plays with a volunteer street band (and has a sedately great time doing it, as is his nature), and every year they paly a festival in Charleston. This is the first year he’s been free to go, and rather than hang out at home alone all weekend, I’ve tagged along. It’s heavily subsidized by the band, Charleston is beautiful, and the weather this weekend is pretty perfect (for me, anyway; I like it warm and sunny).
    • It’s a longer drive than I anticipated. I don’t like long car trips to begin with, but in the last year or so I’ve become prone to carsickness, which was never really a problem before. That means I can’t read in the car without danger of yakking on the side of the road anymore, and mr. biscuit isn’t a very chatty person, and though he tries, he was tired and hungry and also driving, so for a lot of the drive I was at the mercy of my brain, which has been behaving Very Badly lately.
    • We got here in decent time, but since this is a budget trip we are staying in College of Charleston dorms. They’re fine. They’re dorms. They’re…whatever, they’re fine. Getting to them was a giant pain in the ass. Check in was at one building, parking at another, the rooms at a third; there are streets closed everywhere; we have only been here once like six years ago; my phone was dead; mr. biscuit refuses to use nav apps on his phone; we left home about 1:30, got to Charleston about 7:30, finally finished unpacking and parking and got back to our lodging at 10:30.
    • I’m comfortable with who I am. I like my aesthetic. Do I wish things were different about my body/face? Sure. Do I need a haircut? Yes. But in general I’m aware I’m pretty great, even when my brain hates me. Charleston is a beautiful city. It’s also a very old, very Southern city. It’s a holiday weekend in the summer, and two major cultural festivals are going on downtown. There are wealthy, beautifully put-together women everywhere. They are wearing breezy coastal tops, soft pretty makeup. Their hair is perfect. They all look lovely, in that very particular way that wealthy white Southern women look in the summer. They are small and dainty almost to a woman. The streets last night were overrun with beautiful rich white Southern young women and drunk rich white Southern frat boys. By the time we got back to the room last night I felt like a giant hulking monster. A walking tree with none of the grace or majesty of trees. A bipedal cow crossed with a sheepdog, whose makeup is always going to be shitty, whose jawline will never be perfectly sculpted, whose jeans will always be out of style.

So last night I cried on the streets of a beautiful coastal city, and then rather than go to the (outstanding) free concert across the street, or even to dinner, I buried myself in the blankets of a college dorm bed, texted a friend about my self-pity, and fell asleep with my contacts on.

I sent mr. biscuit out to hang out with his friends in the band. He insisted on staying and cuddling me until I started to get sleepy, and he brought me back some dinner and made sure I took my contacts out when he returned, even though I was too deeply asleep to eat or even remember any of that, and even though he had worked a half day while I went to breakfast with one of my besties, had driven all day, and had objectively more reason to be tired and cranky. 20170527_110935

My friend texted me back to soothe my feelings of being out of place. “Honey,” she said. “Which bitch made you cry? It’s a jeans and t-shirt festival if that’s what you want to wear. And you could come home and we’ll go to tea and talk shit about people. The option is there.” It made me laugh, and then I fell asleep.

Today is better. Today is great. I slept super well, and we went next door to get breakfast at a dinosaur-themed coffee shop where I’m currently drinking my third iced mocha of the day (this one is decaf) while he plays a gig somewhere nearby. The weather is beautiful, the city is charming–we walked around a little bit between breakfast and getting him dressed for the gig, and all the shops are nonsense for the wealthy, but the sunshine and the ocean breeze are free, and this iced mocha is in budget. I’m sitting at the window in a dinosaur coffee shop, watching people walk, drive, and bicycle past.

I feel better today.

Sometimes I wonder why I think about myself in ways that I would never think about a friend. If someone I loved was having a particularly rough day during a long and stressful series of rough days, and I heard someone say my friend was being lazy/melodramatic/stupid/ungrateful/a horrible wife/a terrible bitch, I would punch that person in the face. Metaphorically speaking. I would punch them with my impressive range of profanity and carefully crafted bitch face. So why do I let me say those things about myself?

I’m in a weird place right now. On the one hand I’m optimistic as fuck: I’ve quit my job without much of a backup plan and launched an all-or-nothing crowdfunding plan for a fairly ambitious recording project. On the other hand I’m nauseous and tense all the time with the fear of failure, or even worse: the fear of success followed by failure. What if this funds but I fuck up these records? What if everyone realizes I’m a fraud? What if I never finish all the things I have left to do? What if I suck?

At the darkest points I am paralyzed by fear of disappointing everyone in the world. Literally. I named my peasant revolution character after Billy Bragg, and I had a nightmare that someone told him about the act and he called me a fauxgressive shilbot*, and then a bunch of women who were involved in the Peasant’s Revolt of 1318 came and told me I am an insult to their struggle.

I am terrified. All the time.

I’m enjoying today, though. The weather is beautiful, Charleston is pretty, those mochas were delicious. I’m sure all that whole milk will catch up with me in a bit, but for now I’m well. There’s a free girls’ choir performance tomorrow, and there’s also a beach. Things will work out.

Make no mistake: I’m creative. I’m smart. I’m funny. I am capable of producing some pretty great stuff. Other people know this. I know this. Anxiety doesn’t know this. Depression doesn’t know this.

Anxiety is a liar. Depression is a liar. For all its creative power, my brain is a liar.

I’m not doing any work today. I’m going to nourish the part of my brain that isn’t a liar with sunshine and walks. And another mocha.

*HMMM I wonder where this came from

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Bring Back The Baby Goats: A Character Study

11 May

Things Ragnar Lothbrok Loves Most Of All, Beginning with the Most Loved Thing

  • Athelstan
  • being a drama queen
  • sailing for adventure on the bounding main/his sons (tie)
  • Floki
  • The Ladies
  • baby goats
  • being a drama queen (Did I say that twice it’s because Ragnar Lothbrok is a GIANT DRAMA QUEEN)

My stars and garters, a post about costumes

19 Apr
Ok, universe, be straight with me. Do I have the time and willpower to make a Harlots costume for Dragon Con, in addition to the (*counts*) three new costumes I’ve already committed to making?
 
Here are the facts as we know them:
  • I successfully made this style of bodice before, and still have it and the pattern. While I only liked it OK, I think that alterations would be pretty simple–but it would be easy enough to make a new one, as well
  • I am rapidly becoming obsessed with this show
  • fingerless gloves! masks! feathers!

Here are some further facts:

  • I’ve been back and forth between slightly depressed and really depressed for (*counts*) a hot minute* now
  •  I suggested it three years ago, and we have put it off every year, but mr. biscuit and I are committed to finally making Tauriel and Kili costumes this year, and that’s a lotta sewin’
  • I’m also adding a Post-Apocalyptic She-Hulk costume this year
  • did I mention crippling depression and anxiety conspiring to steal my wherewithal because that is a thing that has been happening
  • last year I couldn’t even pull together a Liz Lemon costume, which would literally have been a TGS hoodie, a pair of pajama pants, and a block of cheese
  • the fuck do I curl my hair like that
  • fuck no I’m not wearing another wig**

But then here are still more facts:

  • She-Hulk is going to be pretty simple and probably not require any sewing, just finding and distressing. Also makeup effects, which I’m probably hiring out anyway
  • I’m also probably hiring out for at least parts of Tauriel’s getup
  • this show is my everything

I do believe I have talked myself out of this plan, which is probably for the best.

My current sewing project hasn’t really gone anywhere in a minute***, at first because of blah blah blah, but then because of yadda yadda yadda, and now because of inertia caused by exhaustion caused by sinking sadness with its roots in my brain being a little bit broken. I got up and walked away from the boning channels in the bodice, and haven’t been back except to pile more shit on my desk. It’s a cycle, this. I’ll get in there soon and I’ll clean it up, and my half of the office will be beautiful and calm again, and then I’ll fill it with thread and dramatic sighing.

Two weekends ago mr. biscuit and I went to Texas to visit the Scarborough Renaissance Festival. I worked there for so long, but aside from driving to and from Texas with me the first two times, he had never visited. I had so many friends he had never met. He had never seen the faire, with the spot I staked out to perform, the pubs I sang at with friends, the shop where I ate my weight in cheese bread. Mnozil Brass was performing in the Dallas area, so we combined two trips into one, and had a long weekend so wonderful it was almost miraculous. I was so happy my face hurt from smiling. Then this Sunday I had to give up and crawl into bed at like 5:00, because I was too sad to keep functioning.

I know some people are so depressed they can’t get out of bed, shower, brush their teeth. I have never manifested it so badly for long, thank goodness, though there have been times I’ve been real close. Right now I’m not drowning, but I’m also not getting anywhere. I’m treading water. Using all my energy to stay afloat. By the time I’m done doing the bare minimum of things I have to–get up, wash self, brush hair, go to work, keep work functioning, drive without driving into a tree, tidy up after self–I have nothing left except blank stares and a growing fear that this is it.

I’m not doing much of anything right now, except work. I read books, I leave the TV on for company and so I don’t have to think of things to say, I sleep. I have time to do things, but when I think about doing things I want to weep with exhaustion and terror. Make a costume? Are you kidding me? I couldn’t even make a sandwich today.

So anyway, I don’t think this was actually a post about costuming. I also don’t think I’m making a Harlots costume for Dragon Con.

*a long time
**I’m already wearing one for Tauriel and another for April O’Neill, why do you hate me and my poor scalp?
***several weeks

Doing Science: Ranking Candy

11 Apr
In my free time I have been conducting a thorough investigation of Sweet Tarts’ Easter-themed candy, which is called Chicks Ducks and Bunnies.
This particular type of Sweet Tart comes in five colors (green, red, blue, yellow, purple) and three shapes (chick, duck, bunny).
After EXTENSIVE research, I can say with certainty that the best ones are as follows, presented here from Most Ideal Sweet Tart to Least Good Candy Ever:
 
  • Green Chicks
  • Green Bunnies
  • Red Chicks
  • Blue Chicks
  • Green Ducks
  • Purple Chicks
  • Purple Bunnies
  • Blue Bunnies
  • Red Bunnies
  • all other Ducks
  • mushy old carrots
  • onions snuck into otherwise beautifully cooked cheeseburgers
  • Voldemort
  • all yellow pieces

Of course science is ever-changing, and there’s plenty of room for peer review.

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Welp

26 Feb

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