chunks of flommus
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camp

It’s been over a week, and I’m shampooing my hair in cool water.

And I’m smelling the last campfire, surrounded by people laughing and throwing marshmallows at each other.

The campfire crackles and spits in response to the mallows cast into its breath as men and women sing made up lyrics to a made up song. A calm man with an earnest smile gently strums the strings on a guitar, his body hunched over the instrument.

You hear the laughter and feel it creeping through you. It is a sense of relief. A sense of ease. Of camaraderie. It’s a response to the people around the campfire, open, sharing and supporting one another.

It was Camp.

The shampoo rushes out of my hair.

I’m in my first workshop, surrounded by people. The bright morning light blasts through the bay windows as the instructor speaks.

I’m lost in a thick haze billowing out from my anxiety. ‘What am I doing here? I’m not good enough … That’s right, you aren’t good enough. You’ve been kicked out of theaters because people didn’t think you were good enough. You were a hinderance. You never proved your worth, because you have no worth. You are a ghost. You can’t do improv. Not right. Not well. And here you are, filling a space, filling a void that someone else more deserving should occupy.’

I can’t hear other people – only a steady badum-ba-da-bum over and over. My hands grow cold. I’m terrified of everything happening around me. I force my breath, I keep my words slow and concise. I’m concentrating on the moment because all the thoughts in my head are too much. I’m terrified and stand up.

Then it’s over. The scenes were silly, they were ridiculous. They were funny?

They were beautiful. They were honest.

And I feel safe. Because it’s Camp.

I wring the water out of my hair, and pull the wet locks from my face.

We sing the rules, we laugh with each other. We get to points where the workshops are as much play as they are learning. And the learning doesn’t end at the workshop, it continues into the wee hours when the cold winds whip across our tired faces. There is always one more scene, one more story, one more game. We bare our hearts and souls before complete strangers. And that’s OK. Because I’m surrounded by people that care. They care about the craft. They give a fuck about getting better, not being funny. They give a fuck about other people outside of themselves. And I feel like for the first time in years, that I deserve to be with other improvisors. That my own ego flew out the door and took a vacation because God DAMMIT, I am with people that don’t judge me by my shoes, or my posture, or how they’ll use me until I’m burnt out – or they’re burnt out of using me. I’m with people who give a small damn about ME before I do everything in my power to prove to them I’m worth it. Because for the people there, I am already worth it. Before I even opened my mouth, I was already worth it.

Because it’s CAMP.

The smell of wet wood still lingers in the room. I hope it stays a while longer. Long enough to soak into my marrow and let me move and feel and breathe the moments.

Improv Utopia did more than hone my skills. It gifted me instructors that told me what I thought were my weaknesses, were actually my strengths. It instilled that my problems were never problems to begin with. It was more than validation that Improv is good for me. Camp allowed me to accept that I was good enough for Improv. And I’ll miss it. And I’ll miss the people, so, so much. We’ll see each other again.

“I’ll be seeing you soon, right?” “If you ever want a stage …” “You better let me know if you’re going to be in town …”

The conditioner sits in my hair for twenty three more seconds before it washes out.

—jes

Jes will be part of KABARETT FLommstein, coming spring 2017 … details sooooon!