Thursday, March 6, 2008

When I was very young (say four or five), my parents took me to the circus.  It was one of the old three ring tent circuses, not the thing that they call a circus today that goes on in Amway Centers across the country.  We were very rural, living in a part of the country where most people were related and had out houses, as did we, and going to the circus was the highlight of the year.  I remember this circus very clearly, at least I have clear images, though surely they cannot be accurate.  But they seem incredibly true.  I remember the smell of the canvas and hearing the strange pipe organ music and the crowd of people (pants and legs, of course--I was small) and the enticement of "circus food", cardboard boxes of popcorn and cones of shiny blue and pink of cotton candy.  My mind raced, overtaxed, saturated.  I wanted a souvenir, not that I thought of it as a souvenir, a metal airplane attached to a stick by a string.  Of course, my parents bought me a little pair of binoculars instead.  

We sat in a low wooden bleacher about three quarters of the way to the top, and when the show began, I remember going to a lower row to get a better view.  All those deep reds and oranges and yellows were surely enhanced by whatever lights were used in that tent.  I remember putting the binoculars to my eyes and looking around the ring, scanning left to right, right to left, when suddenly a very large head filled the lenses, a hideous thing, white and blue and misshapen, and to its eyes it brought two tiny hands pretending to hold binoculars, the little fingers of each hand bobbing up and down, up and down, the mouth rounded in sarcastic surprise.  I can still feel in my chest the terrified scream that burst from my throat and lungs, can still feel the wrongness of the thing I had just witnessed, the terribleness of it.  First there was, of course, paralysis, and then the mania.  And when I had flung the binoculars away, there stood a little fellow no bigger than I.  Well, bigger, but not taller.  He was dressed in a pastel blue suit with big cotton ball buttons, a short, pointed blue hat with a cotton ball on top, and big blue shoes and in all that red light--well, it was just horrible.  When my parents would tell the story as I was growing up, they would laugh until they talked about the poor dwarf clown who was mortified, they said, at my reaction.  I don't remember any of that, but I picture him in my mind's eye standing there embarrassed, grown more freakish by the act, a horrifying man, a dwarf, a terrorizer of children, afraid of some public outcry, perhaps fearing a brutal public beating, imprisonment, something.  Surely there was something in his past that he wanted to hide.  

For years, I was terrified by midgets, dwarfs, and clowns.  But this is only the beginning of this story.  There is so much more to tell.  

1 comment:

  1. oooooh. i like that - playing with the words.

    morning u. what's going on? how are things with J? you can tell me you know.

    i haven't been able to write. i'm now three poems behind. the family here - some stuff at work. has taken me off course. i'm going to try after i write you.

    if nyc feels too big -- too much -- there are other places. to shake off the cobwebs. if you want to. i think you don't. one time Mark told me he told you to come here -- but you said something like "i should but i probably wont."

    so i dunno. don't worry about anything like you liking me - "That Way." We can still pal around some. well. if you want. i'm a swell pal.

    so if something like the Hudson River Valley or NJ Shore or whatever seems less Big.

    Oh. I don't know why I do this. :). I guess I can't help myself.

    my head is all filled with the artifacts of U. Peru, the county fair - your beach trip with Rachel & the Boy -

    i wish it all made me like you less.

    okies. off to try to undo my writing constipation.

    thinking of you - there - in your morning -- i'm having coffee and looking out the kitchen windows which are pretty - they bow out - there are three of them. they match the front ones. i can see the chips of sunlight making their way onto the bird bath -- but even the birds are still sleeping it seems.

    another day.