Do not roll your eyes before you
read what I am saying to you.
Before reading this book, I mean.
We all play along but with something
of a dour manner, as if volunteering
at a circus only to realize you’re
at a circus only to realize you’re
about to be forced to perform with
a quartet of clowns. Sure, it’s enter-
taining, but it also reads as if by a
taining, but it also reads as if by a
butch schizo writing an extensive diary.
This caught my attention. We had no idea
where she was going with this, but we
had to agree it was true. Don’t we all lie
to our own diaries. I feel 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’s
a performer’s forte (mostly just slapstick).
Such piquant roles are usually my best, I
hear myself saying out loud, and it’s true.
had to agree it was true. Don’t we all lie
to our own diaries. I feel 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’s
a performer’s forte (mostly just slapstick).
Such piquant roles are usually my best, I
hear myself saying out loud, and it’s true.
But even our most various roles get us
further confused about which part we’re
playing. One remembers a role one wandered
through as if it were a dark comedic role, a lead
in a musical, an overly-dramatized love story,
a raucous Shakespearian comedy. 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!), leaving behind her family. Whether
such a climactic moment in a performance 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
in one dark morning, often near the supposed middle of life,
only to have us in the audience wonder Who the heck am I?
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 were before morning again?
having an idea of who we were before morning again?
We’re all interchangeable. We’ve become inconsis-
tent, and we do not recognize the ramifications.
And that is just those of us who have the gumption
to even understand or more than a line or two of a
news article, much less a stage poem. This is why I
stick to clowning. There’s something very consistent
about a clown, so long as one never wakes up and wants
instead to become a prosecuting attorney, a computer
code writer or a dermatologist. Let the world be filled with
vapid types. That’s what stepping into another’s shoes can
show you, besides give you blisters. Me, my
shoes are about three sizes too long. And I’ve
shoes are about three sizes too long. And I’ve
always got more than one hanky up my sleeve. I
can walk around town terrorizing folks (both children
and adults) with my plastic squirting flower lapel
then head to my job and watch those same kids and those
same interchangeable adults do the same thing, laugh,
and take their checks to the bank. When I’m down, the
last thing I want to do 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) Being a clown is stable business. Oh, and
ball over my nose, but at least I’ve the satisfaction of
knowing two things: 1) Who I am every single day;
and 2) Being a clown is stable business. Oh, and
3) Circuses may be full of manure, but they’re also
and always the stuff of dreams,
which are sometimes nightmares.
