Sadie Lynn (sirenonstrings) wrote in repose, @ 2018-01-08 15:10:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, burden bell, sadie marella |
Log: Sadie and Misha: Busking and Coffee
Who: Sadie Lynn Marella and Misha Bellamy
What: Busking and getting the lay of the land
Where: Outside Secondhand Books & Cafe, then inside for coffee.
When: Mid-Day, lunch time
Rating: PG, because she's a fluffy rabbit who sometimes doesn't have the happiest thoughts.
Status: Closed, Complete
The last year had been a year so chalked full of learning it was almost exhausting. The most recent revelations however, that sleeping outside when it was cold and January first marked the absolute end of getting good tips for playing Christmas songs, were of particular motivation as of late. The former was rather self explanatory, because scraping together enough to get a few warm nights of rest and a functional shower was a thing, but the latter? The latter was its own unique motivator. Sadie would always and forever, love Christmas, or the idea of it at least. The weather, the fact that she couldn't really go swimming in it mainly, she could do without. The thing about it, in her opinion, was that a lot of the traditional music played around it was...well...boring. It was slow and harmonious, things she could appreciate and say were pretty. These were not her favorite things to play. They, like the works of Chopin, were things best played in the early hours. They were slow and easy going, soft little soundtracks to a bleary eyed morning, the kind of things people wanted to hear before coffee had spurred on their sense of charity. It was why she took her mornings easy, opting to forego the pennies and washers that would turn her sneakers into makeshift tap shoes or trying to find some form of bucket to use as percussion. It was why she'd play a few slow songs, being extra thankful for whatever was dropped in the soft, blue, fur of her case. It was why she kept things easy, saving her energy for later in the day when people were more generous and the energy expenditure needed for the pieces she liked and the dancing she did saw greater returns. She'd break up the morning with a hot drink and finding a safe spot to stretch and warm up. On odd days she'd make a point to wash her face first even, taking extra care of washing her hands and keeping they well cared for since they were vital to her continued survival at this point. She'd get herself ready for lunch time with a fresh set of clothes, ones if she was lucky there had even been time to wash in a sink. This ritual, occasionally broken up by nights with hot (and sometimes cold, just because) showers and places to sleep, went on without fail since she'd taken to road two years ago now. It was one her muscles knew by heart. Every day was the same, only often the location would be different. As of late, in the newest town she'd found herself in (since it seemed Christmas was a terrible time to hitchhike), she'd actually found a sense of peace that had previously been elusive. The city had other buskers and interesting sights and, though perhaps it was imagined, she felt a sense of welcome here. Maybe it was just that she'd rolled in so close to Christmas, or that she carried recent fond memories of strangers who'd looked particularly pleased by her performing. Whatever the case it had spurred her to try and stay on a bit longer than she otherwise might have. It had carried her away from parks and remote city places to venues that she'd learned tended to be better suited to what she did. Particularly on days like today, when the sun had pushed its way out and temperatures climbed closer to what could be considered warm for this time of year, she'd make a point to venture out to a high traffic clime and see what she could do. Today's lunchtime, though not hers, she was confident, would be a good one. For certain this wasn't different than other day, when her force of optimism could have created a warm spot in a blizzard, but it was also due to another thing she'd learned in the previous year: Lunchtime was the time of day when people were most likely to toss her money. It was the time of day to make sure she wore clean clothes, which today consisted of a sweater, jeans, fingerless gloves, a red scarf, and a hat with a pom-pom on top -- because those were her absolute favorite. There was a jacket too, denim with faded white fur inside that spoke to seeing a lot of time outside, but really the whole outfit was put together so she could peel out of layers if she got too hot and the jacket would be first to go. It was the time of day when they seemed glad to have their time broken up but a little bit of mirth and ease. It was the time of day where pieces like Vittorio Monti could catch more of a crowd and she could actually start dancing some. It was the time of day where she could get small little crowds and build a rapport, getting people to clap along. It was the time of day when the sun had eased her muscles into a sense of movement that let her bop, dip, weave, and jig along with her playing. It was the time of day where she could encourage people to dance along, to move themselves to the music -- because, to Sadie, that was the point of playing it. Music was supposed to be something you couldn't help but feel moved by. It was, without a doubt, her favorite time of day to be out doing what she did. Lunchtime would see a collection of modern and classic pieces strung together with flourished dancing and tap-sneakers taking to filling in any of the gaps in rhythm. Should anyone have stayed to linger for more of the music, they would absolutely be encouraged to dance and met by her movements if they did. If so inclined, in a way that was absolutely encouraged, there was a nod of invitation to sit on the bucket and drum along or even pick up the set of spoons set she'd set out. Kids absolutely got the most encouragement though, if anyone seemed even remotely interested, she was also more than happy to give a crash course in how to play them. It didn't even matter if they knew the songs or got the rhythm right, she just wanted people to join in. Starting to feel the strain of fingers that told her she'd need a break soon, she decided to turn up the tempo for one last number before she took a break. The medley was an old favorite, one that had thankfully been made famous enough by a movie old as she was (something about a boat sinking?) that people still seemed to know it. It was supposed to have a lot of accompaniment to it, but she could manage without if nobody was there. She'd just bounce on her toes, letting the metal scuffs and claps keep her going. If she could get people to clap along, all the better. Either way, as the tempo would pick up and pieces shifted from one to another, so too would her movements. Heel-toe jig steps would give way to flashy bends and spins. Legs would cross and kicks would carefully be carefully thrown in even, up until she reached the opening of John Ryan's Polka in the center. It was one of her favorite pieces to play and it was there she'd just start spinning and smiling about, pausing only long enough to pick at the strings in a display of showmanship before setting the bow back the strings and starting the whole thing over again. It didn't matter if a soul watched, clapped, or even cared, when the sound came to its quick end, she'd set the bowstring down alongside her violin and collect would have been thrown with a sense of gratitude and appreciation. It felt good not to have to...well...do things she shouldn't to get by anymore. Sure it was the greatest life but at least it was one Sadie could feel good about while she carefully scooted back to find a place to lean and count her gains -- had she gotten enough for something to eat today? |