I just got back from a medieval/fantasy festival in Holland that celebrated its tenth edition this weekend. There is something about that place, the atmosphere, those people, that completely disconnects you from the real world and brings out some of who you really are. I found myself in a state of well-being so deep that I barely noticed it until I got back last night and realized I really, really didn’t want to turn on my computer. I don’t want to care about facebook, twitter or youtube, I don’t want to lose myself in Buffy or any of my online comics.
I want to put on a gypsy dress, take my new tin whistle to the park and play jigs and airs on the grass. I want to surround myself with people in brown leather and tribal tattoos, pass around a horn of mead, and sing in bad Irish to the rhythm of a bodran, a djembe, or an empty pringles packet. I want to find a music shop – not just any music shop either, but one that sells harps and hurdy gurdies and didgeridoos – and let the Dutch vendor explain to me in accented English how to play each instrument. I want to headbang to Coppelius, stamp my feet to Corvus Corax, weave my hips to Prima Nocta, link arms and spin-jig to Scrum until I’m dizzy and gasping for water and yet unable to stop before the music, surrounded all the while by friends doing exactly the same thing. I want to eat vegetarian curry, and honeyed pork on a stick. I want to to wander round the market, trade salt fudge for a ball of wool and a wooden crochet hook to occupy my hands and lengthen the shawl I made. I want to wrap said shawl around my shoulders against the cooler evening air, sit cross-legged on the ground (being careful not to bend my corset) and let my sweetheart lay his head in my lap, stroking his face and hair until he dozes off, hypnotized by the jugglers and dancers and the timeless, earthy music that is Warduna.
I am such a fucking hippie, and I love it.