The Not Giving Up Department

I am intent on developing my clown, Barclay.  I ended up in an excellent program here in Bratt, where is also the home for the New England Center for Circus Arts.  Our clown style is formless and nameless, we follow an Italian guy named Giovanni Fusetti, did I say already, who is grounded in gestalt and other things that delve into the shifting dreamway aliveness of human being that does not stay original if it is boxed and packaged as a brand.

I had a massive omen to do clowning 25 years ago.  In the same day on three separate occasions, three different unrelated people said to me “Was that you clowning in Central Park yesterday?”  I knew it was important, but I was too intent on following the trails I had marked for myself into the mire of dissolution and distorted self reflection in the alcoholic precincts of the east village in NYC.  Then about two years ago a friend of mine gave me a cheap birthday gift, as he is wont to do.  I don’t know why he gives me birthday gifts, we like each other, but it is not the type of friendship that commonly includes birthday acknowledgments, in my experience.  Except this time it was THREE, count ’em, cheap red foam clown noses.

I took this as a message from the universe that it wasn’t too late to try clowning, and it’s been a promising experience.  Barclay is a weird clown.  He doesn’t talk much.  Mostly he goes up there, breathes and looks at the audience, and they crack up.  They fell of the couch when he tried to dance a couple of weeks ago.  So I’m very interested in continuing with this, it feels like I’m expressing something that was buried too long, like talents unearthed from the hardened sedimentary strata of the late neolithic.  It may take a while before I have a consistent grounded repertoire of stuff that puts me soundly on the trail of who Barclay is and what he’s about, but it feels good, that’s the big thing.  Sometimes frustrating.  Sometimes I can’t separate Barclay from the clever, facile Wat guy who couldn’t get laid if he won a huge lottery prize and God epigenetically pasted Marc Wahlborg’s body onto mine.  But more often something happens that makes me want to keep going.

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