oh btw since its pride month heres some knitting and crochet patterns for you. these are all free. note that i have not MADE or TESTED all of these.
so there are a lot of patterns for soft prosthetic breasts for breast cancer survivors, but there's no reason you cant make yourself some boobs:
Ravelry: Knitted Knockers Double pointed needles pattern by KnittedKnockers.org
Ravelry: Knockers (Crochet) pattern by Claudia Barbo
Ravelry: Tit Bits pattern by Beryl Tsang
Ravelry: Quick & Easy Round Knocker pattern by Janet Dawson
patterns for packers:
Ravelry: Perfectly Reasonable Packer pattern by Janet Dawson - this is a pattern i have actually made. i found it really easy to make and to customize/adapt for different yarns.
Ravelry: Soft Packer pattern by Marian Fournier
Ravelry: Trans Masc Packer pattern by Marcy Fank
Ravelry: Knit Packer pattern by Finn Beaton
fun pride themed patterns:
Ravelry: Progress Pride Flag Cutie pattern by Nicola Newt
Ravelry: Transgender Symbol pattern by Sara Allen
Ravelry: LGBTQ+Equality for Shawl pattern by nycraft craftivist
Ravelry: Pride & Trans Pride Flipsy pattern by kawaiicuddlebug
Ravelry: Transitions Trans Pride Cowl pattern by Elizabeth L. Schell
Ravelry: Trans Pride flag handwarmers pattern by Cassian Lotte Lodge
Ravelry: Protect Trans Folks Tapestry pattern by Ashley Gorecki
Pride Flag Knitting Chart! — TINA TSE KNITS
Ravelry: Pride Flag Hearts pattern by Grace Grommes
Ravelry: Pride Headband pattern by Indie Child
Mini Pride Progress Flag Free Crochet Pattern – Unicorn Hideout
Free patterns: Bi Bee, Enbee, Lesbeean – With Love, Feli
things are rough but we will get through it. happy pride month💙
vincent price horror flicks are great because the wretched old servant will be like “beware, for the Evil Twisted Master approaches…. hark! i hear his wicked footstep on the stair even now!” and the door opens and it’s noted bisexual vincent price in a silly outfit
I love that four different people on my feed scheduled this joyous person to reblog by 8am on June 1. I look forward to seeing this a dozen more times today.
To conjure up a magical world me and my friends do all sort of things. For example I’ve painted some 16th/17th century-ish paintings, and made a series of books of which five titles are there to read and probably 10 more exist only as titles. And then there’s Malmö Magical Observatory, the institute where my character work, and Tinsley, Baubel, Humbug & Humbug - the ever so subtly evil company that print bewitched masks and other magical items.
Some of my friends just made a big stone troll that wander around the premise and an other made antique photo albums the size of a thumbnail.
It all existed for two days this time, and I joined in as best I could suffering the effects of the corona im continuum Curse. I long to get back to make up this world and give more people the possibility to enter imaginary worlds, not through a screen or through the pages of a book, but for real, a side step away from there everyday life.
Where we explore the underbelly of renfaire life. This may end up being a series.
---
They Will Take It With Them
The thing about working faire full time is that the general public thinks it’s whimsical.
They see ribbons. They see turkey legs. They see a man in tights calling himself Lord Bumblefuck of the Dandelion Court and assume the whole operation runs on mead, bells, and the power of everyone having read one book about elves in 1998.
It does not.
It runs on vendor contracts, electrical hookups that look like a raccoon installed them during a divorce, managers who say “we’re a family here” right before inventing a new way to charge you for dirt, and booth owners who have sunk the GDP of a small, spiteful duchy into making a temporary plywood rectangle look like a medieval shopping experience.
So when my boss told me about the sword vendor, I did not gasp.
I was counting stock behind the counter, because someone had decided the correct place to put seven decorative daggers was in a pile, point-out, at child height. This is the kind of decision that tells you a lot about humanity. The morning rush had passed. The lane outside was doing its normal midday thing: dust, bells, roasted meat smoke, and parents negotiating with children in princess crowns like tiny unionized terrorists.
My boss leaned on the back table and said, “You ever hear about the guy who packed up during the middle of a show day?”
I looked up.
There are levels to “packed up.” At faire, “packed up” can mean a vendor quietly pulls a few bins after closing because their weekend was bad. It can mean somebody folds emotionally behind a tapestry and has to be revived with lemonade and a joint. It can mean an artist decides Sunday at two-thirty that commerce is a disease and starts giving away ceramic frogs to anyone who makes eye contact.
So I said, “Define packed up.”
He smiled, which was never a good sign. Smiles from my boss are either followed by a funny story, a lawsuit, or the phrase “technically, we’re allowed to.”
“Middle of Sunday,” he said. “Patrons everywhere. Management pissed him off so bad he drove his truck right in.”
I stopped counting.
“Into the faire.”
“Yep.”
“With patrons around.”
“Yep.”
“And management did not enjoy the consequences of their management?”
“They did not.”
This is why I respect vendors, in the same way you respect weather systems and large animals with opinions. A vendor will smile at a patron asking whether the handmade leather bracer comes in “vegan” and then, three hours later, decide that a contract dispute has entered the load-bearing phase.
My boss kept going. “He pulls up right to the booth. Gets out. Starts tearing the whole tent down.”
The image arrived fully assembled - the sword racks, the canvas, the dumb little pennants flapping like they were about to be subpoenaed. Patrons standing there with half-eaten steak on sticks, watching a grown man dismantle his business in real time while probably still wearing period boots because nobody in this industry ever changes footwear before making a life decision.
“Did anybody stop him?” I asked.
My boss gave me a look.
Right. Of course not.
Because faire management, despite being able to appear instantly when your sign is two inches too tall, becomes an endangered vapor when the problem has torque, wheels, and a vendor who has crossed over into religious clarity.
“He just took it down?” I said.
“Completely.”
“Beautiful.”
“It was not beautiful.”
“No, it was. Not for them. For them it was infrastructure failure with witnesses. But spiritually? Gorgeous.”
Outside, someone asked if the swords were real.
I told them they were real enough to be expensive and fake enough to keep everyone out of court, which satisfied them because patrons love answers that sound like a policy even when they are mostly fatigue.
They wandered off. My boss waited until they were out of earshot.
“I knew one guy who pulled a two story both down after hours, salted the earth, and never looked back.
I looked at him again.
He held up one hand. “Not here. Not recently.”
“Of course. Folklore.”
“Yeah.”
Faire has normal folklore, in theory. Ghosts in the old lanes. A queen who cursed a stage. Somebody’s cousin who met their spouse behind the pickle barrel and now they have six children named after herbs.
Then there is vendor folklore, which is less about magic and more about what happens when a person spends ten thousand dollars on carved trim, hand-painted signage, imported fabric, custom counters, fairy lights, display risers, roofing, locks, mats, curtains, and vibes, and then realizes the faire owner may get to profit off that pretty little money-pit after the vendor is gone.
That kind of folklore comes with accelerant.
My boss tapped the counter. “Some people would rather destroy it than let the owners keep it.”
I nodded.
That is the part civilians miss. They think faire people are whimsical because we own mugs with antlers and say “good morrow” to strangers for money. They do not see the spreadsheet behind the whimsy. They do not see the booth rent, the build-out, the weather damage, the permit nonsense, the owner politics, the seasonal gamble, the forty-seven conversations about where a tent stake may morally be placed.
They see a booth.
The vendor sees a hostage situation made of pine.
A group of patrons drifted in then, loud and sunburned, carrying the exhausted optimism of people who had already spent too much money but wanted one more object to justify the parking fee. One of them pointed at a sword and said, “Could you actually fight with that?”
I looked at the sword. I looked at him. I thought about trucks in pedestrian lanes, burning booths, management consequences, and the ancient faire law that every object is only decorative until someone becomes sufficiently wronged.
“Depends,” I said. “How mad are you at the lease agreement?”
My boss coughed behind me.
The patron laughed because he thought I was joking.
Life in the recreated medieval Slavic Gord* in Stobierna (Gród Słowiański w Stobiernej), Poland.
*gord is an archaeological term for a medieval Slavonic fortified wooden settlement, in English known also as a ‘burgwall’ (or ‘Slavic burgwall’) after the German term for such sites. These settlements were usually founded on strategic sites such as hills, riverbanks, lake islands, or peninsulas. In the Polish language this type of Slavic fortified settlements is called a gród, coming from proto-Slavic root gordъ.
getting a set of 100% linen clothes is actually really problematic and dangerous because it has made me want to throw out every piece of synthetic fabric clothing in my wardrobe and replace it with more linen
it's me Boy, I'm the linen fabric, speaking to you inside your brain. Listen to me Boy, leave the Plastic, we don't need her! Come with me and play my games. We'll have Minoan times and Lace! do do do do yeahhh. You need me boy your free will is an illusion
I love Ren Faire/Con chic. I don't care about historicity, I wanna wear pirate outfits with lace up boots and a longsword. I wanna look like a bad 80's fantasy movie. Masters of the Universe core.
