Friday, November 06, 2009
At the Circus
Hundreds of us were seated in banked rows around three sides of the big, bare stage, and dozens of others were filing into the auditorium a few minutes before show time when two clowns joined us in the audience. They were dressed as working men, and they carried a wooden platform loaded with a teetering stack of large, brightly colored boxes. As they walked among the patrons, with that tippy tower between them, the man in back couldn’t get the fellow in front to listen to him. It was a scene we recognize from our own lives, but now distilled to its comic essense: two workers with a job that is likely to defeat them, and one of them begins to get on the other’s nerves. And there was the lovely, palpable suspense: How long before the boxes fell? And how long before the bossy clown’s simmering frustration reached a boil?
In the crazy logic of a clown’s life, not so different from our own, somehow it became important that the boxes be taken down from the platform and reassembled there some better way. Because clowns, like us, make poor judgments, these two fellows chose in the meantime to stack those bright shapes in the lap of a patron sitting in her $100 seat near the aisle. Soon she was holding seven or eight big boxes, and her neighbors were helping her keep them steady, while the two clowns quibbled over how properly to stack them all back onto the platform. And when they finished quibbling, they were embarrassed to remember the poor women they left holding all the boxes. So there was to be an ostentatious thank you, a grand kiss of the woman’s hand. But the bossy clown, so distracted by the sweeping elegance of his showy gesture, kissed the back of his own hand instead. And now there was an unpleasant hair in his mouth, but he got hold of it between thumb and forefinger, inspected this invisible hair and flicked it aside just as a member of the audience passed by, a paying customer unaware that part of the joke was now on him.
The clowns were oblivious, self-centered, incompetent, grandiose, and ludicrous, all in a moment, and all before anyone had walked onto the stage below. There were many parts of the evening’s show that had this same beautiful distillation that we call art. But because this was a circus, there was also wave upon wave of daring carried out with the utter precision that transforms crazy danger into highly polished extravagance. It is not enough that someone walk across the tight rope high in the air; now he must walk back with a woman standing on his shoulders. It is not enough that the trick cyclist ride helter-skelter around the very edges of the stage; now he will ride his two-wheeler as if the front end were a unicycle, with most of the now useless bike circling around him like a wacky ornament. Gymnasts leaped out of windows onto trampolines and then rose back up and passed through those windows again; masters of aerial display swung across the highest reaches of the stage suspended by long flowing sheets of brilliant fabric they had merely wrapped once or twice around their arms; tiny child performers catapulted spinning disks into the air, executed two or even three back flips, and then casually caught the disks on a string again. When the circus isn’t showing us distillations and human essences, it pours out brave and gaudy extravaganzas that are richer than a single pair of eyes can hope to take in. This was Cirque de Soleil, and I notice that one of their troupes is visiting Chicago for an extended engagement. I say that it’s time to take the whole family to the circus.
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A random pick from more than 400 Michiana Chronicles -- refresh the browser to see another set:
April Lidinsky -- More essays by April
Jeff Nixa -- More essays by Jeff
Ken Smith -- At the Circus / More essays by Ken
Jeanette Saddler Taylor -- More essays by Jeanette
Heather Curlee Novak -- More essays by Heather
David James -- More essays by David
Elizabeth Van Jacob -- More essays by Elizabeth
Joe Chaney -- More essays by Joe
Louise Collins -- More essays by Louise
Jonathan Nashel -- More essays by Jonathan
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About the series
Michiana Chronicles is a series of radio essays by Jonathan Nashel, Louise Collins, Joe Chaney, Jeanette Saddler Taylor, Jeff Nixa, April Lidinsky, Ken Smith, Heather Curlee Novak, David James, and Elizabeth Van Jacob.
Michiana is the region of north-central Indiana and southern Michigan roughly centered on South Bend, Indiana.
Michiana Chronicles airs on Fridays at 7:35 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. on WVPE (88.1 FM), the home of public radio in Elkhart / South Bend, Indiana.
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Recent pieces
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Feeding Willard -- Uncle Frank spent a great deal of his daily free time for years caring for my Grandfather. Frank would feed Grandpa Willard at least one meal most days. They would go to restaurants where Grandpa would drink too much and fall asleep before eating much of whatever it was he really liked that day. The whole excursion would take hours because Grandpa Willard was wheelchair bound and needed a special shuttle to travel anywhere. Despite all the trouble to arrange transportation, nurses and equipment Uncle Frank made sure Grandpa also got to his Dreamland cabin in the rocky mountains once or twice a year. He got him loaded onto a ferris wheel, to the opera, ball games and yes, to many, many restaurants. My Uncle took exquisite loving care of him for about eight years before Grandpa Willard died this Spring. By Heather Curlee Novak.
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Farewell, Old Car -- It sure was easy to donate our aging car to WVPE, using the Car Talk web site. We filled out a simple web form, signed the car title, and mailed it off. In a few days a tow truck came to relieve us of the relic that had been dripping oil all over the driveway. Not to mention the car’s occasional demonic impulse to electronically lock and unlock its doors fifty or sixty times a minute. I was very happy to remove the license plate, cancel the insurance, and send it on its way. What could be simpler, and any proceeds go to our favorite radio station. By Ken Smith.
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The Family Dogs -- Our dog developed a great attraction for the mailman and was always escaping to chase his little step van. The attraction blossomed into affection one day when the man stopped the truck, Peanut Butter leaped in, and with the acquiescence of our mother and the grateful blessings of us kids, they both sped off on his appointed rounds. That was the last we saw of Peanut Butter. By David James.
Celebration -- The thing is, at the end of the day we all could do well with more celebrations. We all will be better people with some extra thanksgiving and a little silliness on top. The dog got a bath; bake some special cookies. You conquered Monday; turn off the TV and have a swing dance contest. The neighbor helped you with the yard work; send a cookie bouquet. You choose to be grateful for the small happiness in your life; throw on a feather boa and pop the four dollar champagne! By Heather Curlee Novak.
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At the Circus -- There was wave upon wave of daring carried out with the utter precision that transforms crazy danger into highly polished extravagance. It is not enough that someone walk across the tight rope high in the air; now he must walk back with a woman standing on his shoulders. It is not enough that the trick cyclist ride helter-skelter around the very edges of the stage; now he will ride his two-wheeler as if the front end were a unicycle, with most of the now useless bike circling around him like a wacky ornament. Gymnasts leaped out of windows onto trampolines and then rose back up and passed through those windows again; masters of aerial display swung across the highest reaches of the stage suspended by long flowing sheets of brilliant fabric they had merely wrapped once or twice around their arms; tiny child performers catapulted spinning disks into the air, executed two or even three back flips, and then casually caught the disks on a string again. By Ken Smith.
Feelin’ Cranky, But Trying to Remain Civil -- “Good manners are the grease that makes the wheels of life turn smoothly.” That was a mother-mantra that I endlessly used as my son, Joseph, was in his formative years. Although expressed as a hybridization of the worlds of the prissy and the mechanical engineer, I believed it, and I repeated it: way too many times, he might tell you. I still believe it though. That’s why I am puzzled at the lack of civility which I knee-jerk to exhibit as I age. Even without the excuse of feelin’ poorly, I find myself just getting crankier and crankier. If only I could get that big-eyebrow thing going, I could be Andy Rooney Junior. By Jeanette Saddler Taylor.
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