Shakespeare the Clown
He fills the hollow lives of a future ghost town by juggling little balls while standing on a cross-eyed palomino, trotting in perfect circles. Or he transforms a fistful of nothing into a bunch of yellow flowers, hands it to a little girl, shy and jittery, afraid to smile, to show the gap between her bottom teeth as if she could be disowned for such a tiny space. In the collapsible world of the circus tent, the children, mostly Teton-Lakota, stand before him and clap and laugh or shout words he doesn't catch at first. A few show no expression at all as if they carry a ghost town within them. But for the others, he understands the meaning of their pie-eyed or rheumy-eyed faces. A jargon of silence and distance and still willing to be touched. After all, he is Shakespeare the Clown, and like mostly everyone, he is fumbling in a world of both hope and hopelessness, being and not really belonging-anywhere.
After his act, come three acrobats, with the main attraction being the Bat Woman. She is a short shapely raven-haired woman with tattoos of pipistrelles on her upper arms. She has a thick crooked nose and tiny witchy eyes. Because of the tattoos she is known as "the tiny bat" in a small coterie of co-workers, women with beards, dwarfs with ingenious dance steps, fat men, or ones who try to woo her with the fluttering song from their misshapen hearts, or the ones with ugly feet but pretty eyes. Men, who in their dreams, dive from tightropes and never wake up.
The circus is everyone's dream. The circus is the archetype of the womb as amusement park. Here, all children are illegitimate. No one owns anyone.
The Bat Woman flies through the air and tumbles and turns. At the last possible second, an outstretched hand from a trampoline catches her. Below, Shakespeare, sweaty, crouching under a string of neon lights, squeezes his eyes shut. He imagines the crowd letting out a thin mist of relief. It is still cold in the tent. But Bat Woman has once again escaped death by a hair. And Shakespeare the Clown, at that moment, wishes he were a bird, never having to subject himself to the absurd rituals of risking and being saved. He would fly from town to town and live on hand-outs and crumbs. These would nourish his simple soul. He hates anything as complex as the gravity of a clown.
***
It's a cold drizzle near an abandoned playground. The mud puddles seems to suggest children's faces. Shakespeare is pushing Bat Woman on a swing that creaks as it arches. He keeps reminding her that it's cold and wet, but she's not listening.
"Do you ever get tired of the circus, Shakespeare? Ever want to get out for good?"
He stops pushing her and steps back.
"It's the only thing I'm good for. Making people laugh and sigh if only for a moment. I can never stay in too deep. I begin to melt. It frightens me."
"Never been married?"
"Never. Been in love once or twice and when they left me I grew too skinny for my costumes. I'm more comfortable on the surface. I'm feel safer when the lights go on. In mirrors, I pretend to be sad. I'm always pretending."
Bat Woman scrapes her feet against the dirt until she is sitting motionless on the swing. She looks up at the grey and white clouds moving somewhere. She tries to breathe them in.
"Well, I suppose we all want to be loved for who we are, but I'm always tempted to miss the catch. Because in falling I would then know I was never meant to be. My father the clown taught me that. His face always came off at night. I still get the chills in a room full of strangers."
She rises, turns around, and walks toward Shakespeare. For a moment, they study their presences, consider who they're supposed to be, who they could have been. They embrace and they feel good about it. Caressing her head against his chest, Shakespeare listens to the soft rain. It's a kind of broken iambic scheme. Or maybe just light nonsensical verse meant to amuse and nothing more. But it's still cold.
***
It's late evening. The last circus show is over. In a cheap apartment in Lawrence, not far from an old mining district, Shakespeare removes his costume, stubbing his toe on the hard floor. In bed, Bat Woman tells him not to remove his make-up, that she loves being loved by a clown. After all, her father was one. Her sardonic tone gives Shakespeare the chills.
Fumbling under the sheets, he asks, "Am I that ugly without make-up?"
He pats his cheeks, rolls his eyes upward in a funny melodramatic way. He wants to make her laugh.
"I've always hated my nose," she says. You can still tell it's broken, can't you? I fell flat on my face so many times as an apprentice. I should be in that wooden box where they saw you in half and I would disappear. And that would solve the dilemma of the flying trapeze artist who never knew what to do with herself. "
Shakespeare thrusts deeper and harder into her. By the time he comes, his make-up has run onto her chest. He is reminded of the faces of the children he made laugh. He imagines one of them asking "Do you have any children of your own, Mr. Clown?"
Trying to recover herself, Bat Woman feels she has been split into two. One part of her is falling. The other part she will never find.
"Where are you? Who are you?" she moans with shut eyes. Her hands dig and rub across Shakespeare's shoulders.
"I am here," he says, as his face slides off her gummy breast.
She gently pushes him away but grasps his hands, pulls them to her chest.
"Help me up, " she says.
He fills the hollow lives of a future ghost town by juggling little balls while standing on a cross-eyed palomino, trotting in perfect circles. Or he transforms a fistful of nothing into a bunch of yellow flowers, hands it to a little girl, shy and jittery, afraid to smile, to show the gap between her bottom teeth as if she could be disowned for such a tiny space. In the collapsible world of the circus tent, the children, mostly Teton-Lakota, stand before him and clap and laugh or shout words he doesn't catch at first. A few show no expression at all as if they carry a ghost town within them. But for the others, he understands the meaning of their pie-eyed or rheumy-eyed faces. A jargon of silence and distance and still willing to be touched. After all, he is Shakespeare the Clown, and like mostly everyone, he is fumbling in a world of both hope and hopelessness, being and not really belonging-anywhere.
After his act, come three acrobats, with the main attraction being the Bat Woman. She is a short shapely raven-haired woman with tattoos of pipistrelles on her upper arms. She has a thick crooked nose and tiny witchy eyes. Because of the tattoos she is known as "the tiny bat" in a small coterie of co-workers, women with beards, dwarfs with ingenious dance steps, fat men, or ones who try to woo her with the fluttering song from their misshapen hearts, or the ones with ugly feet but pretty eyes. Men, who in their dreams, dive from tightropes and never wake up.
The circus is everyone's dream. The circus is the archetype of the womb as amusement park. Here, all children are illegitimate. No one owns anyone.
The Bat Woman flies through the air and tumbles and turns. At the last possible second, an outstretched hand from a trampoline catches her. Below, Shakespeare, sweaty, crouching under a string of neon lights, squeezes his eyes shut. He imagines the crowd letting out a thin mist of relief. It is still cold in the tent. But Bat Woman has once again escaped death by a hair. And Shakespeare the Clown, at that moment, wishes he were a bird, never having to subject himself to the absurd rituals of risking and being saved. He would fly from town to town and live on hand-outs and crumbs. These would nourish his simple soul. He hates anything as complex as the gravity of a clown.
***
It's a cold drizzle near an abandoned playground. The mud puddles seems to suggest children's faces. Shakespeare is pushing Bat Woman on a swing that creaks as it arches. He keeps reminding her that it's cold and wet, but she's not listening.
"Do you ever get tired of the circus, Shakespeare? Ever want to get out for good?"
He stops pushing her and steps back.
"It's the only thing I'm good for. Making people laugh and sigh if only for a moment. I can never stay in too deep. I begin to melt. It frightens me."
"Never been married?"
"Never. Been in love once or twice and when they left me I grew too skinny for my costumes. I'm more comfortable on the surface. I'm feel safer when the lights go on. In mirrors, I pretend to be sad. I'm always pretending."
Bat Woman scrapes her feet against the dirt until she is sitting motionless on the swing. She looks up at the grey and white clouds moving somewhere. She tries to breathe them in.
"Well, I suppose we all want to be loved for who we are, but I'm always tempted to miss the catch. Because in falling I would then know I was never meant to be. My father the clown taught me that. His face always came off at night. I still get the chills in a room full of strangers."
She rises, turns around, and walks toward Shakespeare. For a moment, they study their presences, consider who they're supposed to be, who they could have been. They embrace and they feel good about it. Caressing her head against his chest, Shakespeare listens to the soft rain. It's a kind of broken iambic scheme. Or maybe just light nonsensical verse meant to amuse and nothing more. But it's still cold.
***
It's late evening. The last circus show is over. In a cheap apartment in Lawrence, not far from an old mining district, Shakespeare removes his costume, stubbing his toe on the hard floor. In bed, Bat Woman tells him not to remove his make-up, that she loves being loved by a clown. After all, her father was one. Her sardonic tone gives Shakespeare the chills.
Fumbling under the sheets, he asks, "Am I that ugly without make-up?"
He pats his cheeks, rolls his eyes upward in a funny melodramatic way. He wants to make her laugh.
"I've always hated my nose," she says. You can still tell it's broken, can't you? I fell flat on my face so many times as an apprentice. I should be in that wooden box where they saw you in half and I would disappear. And that would solve the dilemma of the flying trapeze artist who never knew what to do with herself. "
Shakespeare thrusts deeper and harder into her. By the time he comes, his make-up has run onto her chest. He is reminded of the faces of the children he made laugh. He imagines one of them asking "Do you have any children of your own, Mr. Clown?"
Trying to recover herself, Bat Woman feels she has been split into two. One part of her is falling. The other part she will never find.
"Where are you? Who are you?" she moans with shut eyes. Her hands dig and rub across Shakespeare's shoulders.
"I am here," he says, as his face slides off her gummy breast.
She gently pushes him away but grasps his hands, pulls them to her chest.
"Help me up, " she says.