usually, october waterfires are cold and miserable. if i’m dumb enough to try to busk, i’m forced to step down after an hour or two at most, muscles shivering and joints locking up. but not this year. i’d bought a warm underlayer and a scarf, brought extra gloves and shirts, and didn’t need them at all. i performed for four hours without breaks. i don’t know where all this stamina is coming from, but i’m grateful to have had it this season.
- from the start, i was plagued by vendors who sell plastic crap that lights up and blinks and costs eight cents to make and eight dollars to purchase. they were all over my area, much more persistent than usual, using the glora gemma breast cancer awareness theme of waterfire to sell pink shit to anyone dumb enough to buy it. i sent wyatt to chase a couple away because they were unreasonably close to me. i stepped down to tell one to stay away from my pitch. but whenever one left, another came in to take their place. it amazes me that there are so many at waterfire, considering how much barnaby and the entire waterfire staff hates them, and the cops hate them, and most of the non-parent people who attend waterfire hate them. can’t you leeches go make a buck elsewhere? how can you care so little about the vibe of an event? i want to grab each one of them by the shoulders and shake them.
+ PUPPY IN PINK!
there was another dog that walked towards me earlier in the evening, but as i knelt down to see if he’d let me pet him, he gave me a rather dramatic “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU?!” look and promptly backed away from me. sorry, puppy! i did not mean to scare you. i just wanted to say hi.
- a few people, when talking about me to their companions, referred to me as male. one guy was particularly persistent about it. i know i don’t have D cups or anything, but, seriously?
+ one of my favorite things that happens within my crowds is adults giving money to children they don’t know so they can make the statue come to life. i see this happen a handful of times every busking season. it’s refreshing and heartwarming to see that kind of spontaneous generosity, to see grownups understanding and appreciating the importance of the magic between a child and the statue.
+ love this little girl.
+ i ended the night perfectly. there was a little boy, as tall as my tip jar and just old enough to be able to walk independently, staring with the slightest hint of awe in his eyes. i knelt down and extended my hand. he ran to his father. i waited patiently. his father very gently encouraged him to approach me. there was no force, no pressure, only reassurance. i watched the boy as he made his decision. holding his father’s hand, the anchor that would keep him safe, he stepped toward me. as he moved closer, he forgot all about his anchor, and put his little hand in mine. he and his slightly older sister were each given some money to put in my tip jar. their faces lit up as i blew them kisses. their father thanked me, quietly, sweetly, repeatedly. i want to extend my most heartfelt thanks to you, sir, for being the kind of person that helps make street performance the anchor for my soul.
