And got chased back inside by a random, barking Doberman.
This past weekend I had the pleasure of watching a young cuban girl, aged 4.5 years, draw portraits of my friends and I after a memorial for our lost comrade. It struck me as a perfect punctuation of levity in an otherwise intense experience. The hands of this young sprite crafted me as a clown floating above my grounded compas, with my own accompanying title transmogrified to fit that of a yipping, mongrel, stub-legged animal which aids in the herding much larger beasts.
Now, let us unpack the flattering portions (exaggerations imminent, 3.. 2.. 1…) of this nina’s prophecy:
1. Yes, I’m a clown. A performer representative of the most grotesque manifestations of human experience, which one finds capable of inspiring both laughter and abject terror(especially in those stricken with coulrophobia). I dare you to find a more powerful fool locked in a human body. I avert your attention to Bim Bom the clown, whom I learned had an historical presence in Moscow during the period of the revolution, from a delightfully shitty and revisionist documentary entitled The Russian Revolution in Color. Of course, the producers simply could not bear the grave omission of this rather minor political actor in the casting of czarist Imperial Russia to the dustbin of history, and so we are delighted to witness his public execution mid-performance at the hands of a slow-clapping, leather-clad NKVD agent who remained unamused by Bom’s antics(since this event never actually occurred, mind you. Bim Bom at most had to endure censorship during his lifetime for being a dick). Before this diversion settles even further into your memory, let us return to the fact that the clown’s power derives itself first and foremost from his subversion of your psyche. Their very presence warps your conception of facial features to a point that casts a virtual perversion of all expression.
2. I am floating above everyone. Let’s leave that one packed, lest anyone’s feelings get hurt. Surely, I jest. After all, I shit in the same room as an animal that weighs less than ten pounds, where could I possibly fit an ego, all things considered?
Now, the hands of this little girl have created a world which I can now use as a pretense to lighten a growing quarter-life crisis. I need to create, and it must take the form of my clowning performance. At the end of the year, when I turn 25, I’d like to look back on achievements that have matched my previous goals, rather than consistently saying, “Oh, there’s always next year.” In that regard, I’m announcing my goal to perform and perfect a set of stand up comedy over the next six months. It’s either this reality I bring to being, or continue to spend my nights growing libations out of my hands, and we all know where that road leads.
While you catch those eight hours of sleep a night, a condition which I remain certain you’ll never overturn, I’ve decided to revamp this place into an actual blog. You may come here when you wake to browse those thoughts of mine you’re very acute curiosity aches to endure.
At the moment, my tireless drive brings bacon, eggs, and my mind fried to an edibility worth splitting infinitives over. While smoking a cigarette under the covered shelter outside my modest apartment, I even noticed that the wasps who normally resign themselves to building strategically placed nests around my door have taken these hours to rest. When I return home from laboring in about five hours, I’m sure they’ll wake with the rest of the shuffling denizens of my neighborhood to continue their complete and charming harassment of my being. Enchanteé.
I hope you’ve slept well. We’ll discuss this further in the brighter hours of the A.M. , I’m sure. After all, an adventure that has gone undocumented surely never happened, or perhaps never found itself worthy of documentation. Enjoy the future, friends.