Tuesday, May 29, 2018

Beware ...the Poisoner!


May 26th marked one of the biggest nights of my year, in terms of sheer preparation and outlay of effort. So it has been for the past half-decade or so.

At Portland's 16th annual Vampires' Masquerade Ball no one was, thankfully, required to have fangs, although many went that route in their costume choices. But the event is for anyone who appreciates Gothic or industrial music, dark and/or elegant sentiments, or a historic and regal style of costume.

Last year at the VMB, and at its subsequent cousin, the Vespertine Winter Ball, I went as versions of Marie Antoinette. The spring event was the most fun for this, since I was fully immersed in exploring the herstory, ideologies, fashion and culture of Marie. By the time the Vespertine arrived, however, my genderfluid soul had already begun channeling its more masculine portion, as a love for Severus Snape and warlockish magic was revived in me, so my Ancien Regime gown did not fit as well as it had earlier that year. I almost did not buy a ticket to this year's Masquerade, in fact, but I realized quite truthfully: This could always be my last one. There are also friends I see pretty much only at these events, and I wasn't ready to miss that opportunity.

I already knew I was going as something dangerous and masculine, something sleek, dark and, well, Snapelike. Not only because my spirit called for it, either, but because moving through a crowd of 750 in a pannier gown is like piloting a barge sideways in molasses. But I didn't just want to go as Snape, in a plain old frock, with a plain old face. I wanted more, even, than merely my awesome test-tube bandolier. (I am so hard to please.) I wanted potion and poison bottles on practically every damn part of me, a veritable arsenal. And, I decided at the last, I was going incognito. It would be my first year wearing a full mask, completely disguised. What began as a Potions Master ended up as more a Medieval or Renaissance-style poisoner-assassin, the kind who slips into the banquet hall or King's boudoir and does dirty work.

Thanks, Sandy!

Of course, I ended up fucking awesome.

Watch your drink, vampire!
(Thandiwe also looks awesome.)

I busted my bohocus the week before the Masquerade, not only revamping my test-tube ammo belt, but making some other spiffy accessories, including a belt-slip for a couple of antique bottles, an arm cuff and a gauntlet, the latter packing several tiny glass vials. All are leather, and sewing leather by hand is a bitch. My fingers became sore, and I was very grateful for my leather awl by C.S. Osborne and Company.


The day of the event was hectic. I hustled to finish the last details, get my hair dyed a fresh greasy black, and completed the rivet designs on my mask even as I rode downtown on the bus to buy alcohol. After all, one of the best perks of having a myriad little bottles in your costume is the ability to pack half a fifth of booze on your person, and nobody blinks an eye . . . and it's never-you-mind to those ridiculously overpriced cocktails! Snape's nose, but I had vodka, I had Irish Cream, I had port. . . . While I saw no point in actually carrying assassins' chemicals just to impress a couple of people at a measly four-hour event, this Renaissance poisoner was nonetheless loaded.


And well that I was, for it was hard to get in the "zone" of comfort and enjoyment --- partly due to the stress of preparation, and for still ending up two hours late (I get so sick of being late) and having to bike there, but also? It was one day before my moon. You're at, like, your very worst and most slaggy the day before you get your moon. Once I had a few sips in me, things began to improve. I danced the Midnight Waltz with a friend, and those who knew me (and some who didn't) loved my duds. And if I wanted to vanish from those who knew me or not, it was on with the mask!

In short: It was worth it. I mean, look at this shit.


One of the best things about this go-around is that the resulting products, the arm cuffs and other accessories, are the sort of thing that I can wear in everyday life. They look amazing and bad-arse, and they're also practical. Even if I don't plan to poison anybody.


The night bursted with the unexpected. First, my Goth friend Mr. Litster, who has family in Britain (lucky dawg!), brought me a gift from over there: In the food line, he handed me a little vial of water from the Chalice Well in Glastonbury. I'd been to this very place, the lion-headed spigot that pours iron-rich water and feeds the Chalice Well itself, as a teenager back in '98, where I cried in happiness and emotional connection to my ancestral roots. What a potion! What a special gift!


Secondly, I rarely buy anything from the vendors, but this year a table was selling a whole selection of antique stamped brass medallions and embellishments from the Czech Republic. I'm a sucker for these --- I can use them on icons, on book covers, and lots of other projects. The vendor couple told me they didn't sell well, because people don't know what to do with these raw, unincorporated materials, but I felt like I'd hit a gold mine! I dropped a fair wad on some beautiful Gothic metal ornaments and flourishes, and then a bit more on two witchy prints by another woman I know, Maxine Miller.

Third and less fortunate, the organizer was four people short in her dissembly crew. She pleaded for help, and a bunch of us still in Goth, fancy costume, and even high heels began stacking chairs, carrying stage poles, and sweeping. I watched in admiration as the burly, gray-haired team lead worked the breakdown crew like a sergeant, cranking fiercely on the controls of the aerial circus supports; no doubt they had a deadline. But still is the most indomitable of us mortal and of limitation: I was startled to see him outside a bit later, being comforted by someone, and I offered to get him a glass of water. Not long after, they had to call an ambulance --- he had overexerted himself! Suddenly, all that mattered was that he would be okay, for we had done what we could. At four in the morning, it was time to clear out.

After so much prep and anticipation, the night had passed in a whirlwind, as it so typically does. A bike ride home in the early blue dawn, where I held up my Chalice Well vial to the pink gibbous moon as it set on the horizon, followed by a quick shower. Then I curled into bed, exhausted, and slept most of next day.

Now for the rest of my summer!

Update, June 9: The organizer reports that Eric the "sarge-ish" crew lead is well and back home with his family. It was only a *mild* heart attack. Bloody hell, and thank goodness!

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