And narrative in the so-called novel
suggests autobiography. Do not roll
your eyes before you read what I am
saying to you. Before you read the
book, I meant to say. We all play
along but with something of a de-
meaning manner, as if volunteering
at a circus only to realize you are
about to be made to perform with a
quartet of clowns. Sure, it’s enter-
taining, funny even, but it also reads
like it's just a butch schizo writing an
extensive diary. This caught my att-
ention. For one thing, everyone lies.
At least occasionally. We had no idea
where she was going with this, nor
which part of her was uttering it. But
we had to agree it was true. We even
lie to our diaries. Or at least I did. This
I seize upon quietly, feeling a pang of
the practice in conjunction with a
perhaps embarrassing empathy. We
all attempt lifetimes reaching some sort
of maturity. But then there’s the kid
in me. Because of this everybody lies
thing, it can be less and less funny as
an actor performing a role, even if comedy
is the performer’s forte (mostly just slapstick).
Such piquant roles are usually my best, I
hear myself saying out loud, and it is true.
But even our most various roles get more
and more confused about which part one
actually played. Or one remembers a
role and wonders if it was a dark comedic
role, a lead in a musical, an overly-drama-
tized love story, a raucous Shakespearian
comedy (or The Tempest). None of our
gang do any of his tragedies (which means
we probably cry real tears more often).
Be it the role of a tragicomic Chekhovian
uncle or an ingenue that grows so wise
during the duration of a mere three hours
that her only alternative is to slam the door
softly behind her family. Whether such a
climactic moment in a performance (or a
lie) is an I've had it moment or a moral
comeuppance or both, it's the grand lie
of the actor/auteur/artist that wakes up one
still dark morning somewhere, often near their
supposed middle of life, only to wonder
Who the heck am I? While better people
(and if you think my portrayal of these folks
as actors are not just a metaphorical stand-in
for ALL LIARS, then it will likely never be of
any concern to you, anyway; you are a dying
breed. But for those who are following me,
aren't they just the most easily exemplified
and recognized breed of our confusion/
confession, or our waking up to never once
having an idea of who we are again? Or it is
passible that you missed the same point of the
autobiography as written by wildly diverse
characters who lack any consistency and yet
fit somehow into one body. And neatly, I might
add. Surely you’ve noticed. No wonder she
and Perez are like this [crosses fingers]. But stage
directions in a poem that proves that none of us
reading this (and let’s just fantasize that a million
people do overnight, and the vast majority of those
who do read it more than once) get the point? We
are all interchangeable. We’ve become in-
consistent, interchangeable, and we do not recog-
nize the ramifications. That is the minority of you
who have the gumption to even understand or
read more than a line or two of a newspaper
article (much less a poem). This is why I stick
to clowning. As much as possible. There is
something very consistent about a clown, so
long as he never wakes up and wants instead
to become a prosecuting attorney, a computer
code writer or a dermatologist or something.
Let the world be filled with vapid no frills types.
That is what stepping into another's shoes can
do for you. Besides give you blisters. Me, my
shoes are about three sizes too long. Such is
the life of a clown. And I've always got more
than one hanky up my sleeve. I can walk around
town terrorizing folks (both children and adults)
then head to my job at a party and watch those
same kids and those same interchangeable adults
laugh themselves into a foamy mouth or a sore
throat. When I am down, the last thing I want to
do in the morning is put on my clown suit and my
oversized shoes and my big red wig and the squeaky
ball over my nose, but at least I’ve the satisfaction of
comedy (or The Tempest). None of our
gang do any of his tragedies (which means
we probably cry real tears more often).
Be it the role of a tragicomic Chekhovian
uncle or an ingenue that grows so wise
during the duration of a mere three hours
that her only alternative is to slam the door
softly behind her family. Whether such a
climactic moment in a performance (or a
lie) is an I've had it moment or a moral
comeuppance or both, it's the grand lie
of the actor/auteur/artist that wakes up one
still dark morning somewhere, often near their
supposed middle of life, only to wonder
Who the heck am I? While better people
(and if you think my portrayal of these folks
as actors are not just a metaphorical stand-in
for ALL LIARS, then it will likely never be of
any concern to you, anyway; you are a dying
breed. But for those who are following me,
aren't they just the most easily exemplified
and recognized breed of our confusion/
confession, or our waking up to never once
having an idea of who we are again? Or it is
passible that you missed the same point of the
autobiography as written by wildly diverse
characters who lack any consistency and yet
fit somehow into one body. And neatly, I might
add. Surely you’ve noticed. No wonder she
and Perez are like this [crosses fingers]. But stage
directions in a poem that proves that none of us
reading this (and let’s just fantasize that a million
people do overnight, and the vast majority of those
who do read it more than once) get the point? We
are all interchangeable. We’ve become in-
consistent, interchangeable, and we do not recog-
nize the ramifications. That is the minority of you
who have the gumption to even understand or
read more than a line or two of a newspaper
article (much less a poem). This is why I stick
to clowning. As much as possible. There is
something very consistent about a clown, so
long as he never wakes up and wants instead
to become a prosecuting attorney, a computer
code writer or a dermatologist or something.
Let the world be filled with vapid no frills types.
That is what stepping into another's shoes can
do for you. Besides give you blisters. Me, my
shoes are about three sizes too long. Such is
the life of a clown. And I've always got more
than one hanky up my sleeve. I can walk around
town terrorizing folks (both children and adults)
then head to my job at a party and watch those
same kids and those same interchangeable adults
laugh themselves into a foamy mouth or a sore
throat. When I am down, the last thing I want to
do in the morning is put on my clown suit and my
oversized shoes and my big red wig and the squeaky
ball over my nose, but at least I’ve the satisfaction of
knowing two things: 1) Who I am every single day;
and 2) That clowns are the most stable humans in
any business, if not in the entire world. Oh, and
3) Circuses may be full of manure, but they are also
and always the stuff from which dreams are made.
3) Circuses may be full of manure, but they are also
and always the stuff from which dreams are made.
