Arisia: The view from the crow's nest
Jan. 22nd, 2025 08:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
slipjig3Arisia ended two days ago, which is my cue to dither about procrastinating on my recap post, and then end up procrastinating anyway. Back in The Day, when I'd managed to get an Arisia post out at all, it would have been a cleverly formatted multi-part extravaganza, laying out the highlights like I was assembling a YouTube documentary series on the topic. This year, though, seemed to be the Arisia that defied storytelling—not in a bad way, mind, but in a way that put the good things in the "vibe" column rather than the "event" column. A little time in the Gaming Room, a little time in the Dealers Room, and an arse-ton of time in the lobby watching the glass elevators rise and fall. Not exactly swashbuckling, but it was all centered around connection and contact, which was precisely what I needed on a thousand different levels. This is the only con I regularly attend because it's the one con where I know I'll know dozens of folks and get in all the hugs and conversations I need to make it through the long dark teatime of the January soul.
If there was a theme at all in play, it turned out to be music, and the making and appreciation thereof. Three things:
1) Blessedly,cluegirl was in attendance after missing a year, so we worked in an hour of loose-elbowed practice in her hotel room, where we discovered that only getting together twice in five years means a lot of going wide-eyed in the middle of the second verse because what the honking feck are the words, I know I used to know the damn chords, please gods tell me we have this written them down somewhere. Moral of the story: I need to do this more often.
2) There is an Arisia tradition (by which I mean we've done it two years in a row so now it's a tradition) of getting together withmarnen and not-on-DW Dybbuk, both of them on fiddle and me on guitar, and converging at some lobby adjacency and improvising whatever instrumental jams leap out of us until my fingers fall off or hotel staff shut us down, whichever comes first. This year we did it both Saturday and Sunday nights, commandeering an area known as the Crow's Nest off the third floor just above the restaurant, an area that had a door leading to a balcony that mildly drunk congoers kept accessing to go watch the snowstorm blow across the Charles River. (Does this help keep stringed instruments in tune? No. No, it does not.) It was truly a blast, M and D are great jam partners, and had my lack of fingertips calluses not called a halt I'd have gladly kept going. Moral of the story: I need to do this more often.
3) I stuck my head in at the dance party on Saturday, as I sometimes do, only this time I let myself get talked away from the cowering wall and onto the dance floor. That's rare. I wasn't going to dance because I felt awkward and self-conscious, but I was reminded that the cure for that is dancing. She was right. Moral of the story: I need to do this more often.
There's an entry to be written about a crisis of faith I've been dealing with where my music is concerned, but this isn't that entry, and I have to be up early, and whatever other excuse I can come up with not to talk about it now. Suffice it to say, however, that the weekend reminded me in no uncertain terms that yes, I need to do this more often.
To everyone I saw there: thank you. It was what I needed.
If there was a theme at all in play, it turned out to be music, and the making and appreciation thereof. Three things:
1) Blessedly,
cluegirl was in attendance after missing a year, so we worked in an hour of loose-elbowed practice in her hotel room, where we discovered that only getting together twice in five years means a lot of going wide-eyed in the middle of the second verse because what the honking feck are the words, I know I used to know the damn chords, please gods tell me we have this written them down somewhere. Moral of the story: I need to do this more often.2) There is an Arisia tradition (by which I mean we've done it two years in a row so now it's a tradition) of getting together with
marnen and not-on-DW Dybbuk, both of them on fiddle and me on guitar, and converging at some lobby adjacency and improvising whatever instrumental jams leap out of us until my fingers fall off or hotel staff shut us down, whichever comes first. This year we did it both Saturday and Sunday nights, commandeering an area known as the Crow's Nest off the third floor just above the restaurant, an area that had a door leading to a balcony that mildly drunk congoers kept accessing to go watch the snowstorm blow across the Charles River. (Does this help keep stringed instruments in tune? No. No, it does not.) It was truly a blast, M and D are great jam partners, and had my lack of fingertips calluses not called a halt I'd have gladly kept going. Moral of the story: I need to do this more often.3) I stuck my head in at the dance party on Saturday, as I sometimes do, only this time I let myself get talked away from the cowering wall and onto the dance floor. That's rare. I wasn't going to dance because I felt awkward and self-conscious, but I was reminded that the cure for that is dancing. She was right. Moral of the story: I need to do this more often.
There's an entry to be written about a crisis of faith I've been dealing with where my music is concerned, but this isn't that entry, and I have to be up early, and whatever other excuse I can come up with not to talk about it now. Suffice it to say, however, that the weekend reminded me in no uncertain terms that yes, I need to do this more often.
To everyone I saw there: thank you. It was what I needed.
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