The Nine Lives of Cecil the Circus Clown, Part 1

One: In which a young Cecil sees the light and joins the circus.

The circus had come to town under rather suspicious circumstances loosely connected with the recent revolution in Russia and had left with Cecil. It is an odd story involving a dead magician and a giraffe which said magician supposedly pulled from a top hat. He was, of course, not dead at the time. He would not be dead for some time, but he is dead now.
Cecil was a very curious young man, despite his name, which was rather dull. He had brown eyes and sandy colored hair, for readers who like to know that sort of thing. As a large crowd of curious townspeople pushed through the opening of the circus tent, Cecil managed to slip around through the back to the mysterious fenced off back stage area and lost himself in the insane wonder of half-costumed circus performers. He stayed in the shadows, though they seemed too busy to notice him.
As he stood to the side of a large striped tent, peeping around the corner to where the flap-opening was, he was startled by the rapacious belly of a very large man emerging from the tent. This man might not have been so startling had he been dressed in more than a diaper and had not been followed by another man dressed just like him. They both seemed intent upon taking the direction where Cecil lurked, which struck him as unpleasant. Without thinking he ducked under the canvas wall of the tent.
“Well, well, what have we here?” said a husky voice. Cecil found himself looking into the face of a woman with a beard, though not so much a beard as a rather grotesque mustache.
“I’m new,” Cecil said. At the moment it seemed the only thing to say.

Two: In which Cecil sees strange things

“Take a seat,” said the mustache.
Before he knew what was happening, Cecil’s face was smeared with something white and oily all over. He felt it clump on his eyelashes as he blinked rapidly. The mustache added a red mouth that exceeded the boundaries of his lips and expert circles on his cheekbones. She then swirled her brush in the black paint and gave him downcast eyes and painted tears.
All the while she barked orders to her subordinates in a language Cecil didn’t understand. He found himself pushed into a strange baggy colorful costume with buttons and puffs all over, topped by a fluffy collar and pointed hat. It was an odd experience, but it was the circus. Everywhere he looked there were people in strange disguise.
Soon after this the dark eyed magician pulled a giraffe from his top hat. It was not the usual magicians act with blinding wild lights and smoke to confuse the eyes of the audience. Cecil had always thought he could see through all the magicians that came to town. Most of there tricks were sadly obvious, but this man was different. The orchestra played Tchaikovsky as the magician set the hat on the center of the sawdust stage and circled it closely before picking it up again and waving hand beneath it. Cecil watched in breathless anticipation from the side, peeking through a heavy velvet curtain that looked like it belonged in a palace once upon a time. He could barely believe his eyes as the beautiful and strange giraffe emerged from the top hat as though it were the most commonplace action in the world.

Three: In which Cecil is decisive

Cecil walked in a daze out of the circus tent, scarcely able to believe in the beauty he had just witnessed. He lay on the grass sloping down from the road and looked to the stars, trying the make his brain slow down. He did not know how much time had passed when he began to hear the crowd scuffling out of the tent. No one seemed to notice him, even in the garish costume. There was no moon.
“Can you believe the nerve of that hack calling himself a magician?” Cecil heard. “No pizzazz, it a shame what these fellows charge. Felony if you ask me.”
At that moment Cecil made up his mind that he could not go back to town and be happy. He shot up off the ground and ran back to the curious jumble of tents and wagons.
“See what I mean? Eavesdroppers and peeping toms, the lot of them,” said the disgruntled circus-goer.
“We shall all be murdered in our beds,” said his wife.

Four: In which Cecil meets the magician’s daughter

“You’re not one of us,” said a voice, calm and curious, from behind Cecil.
“I’m not one of anybody,” he said. He was feeling out of spirits which caused him to dismiss grammar out of hand.
“I saw you when my father called the giraffe out of his hat. You understood, and that is why you are still here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You came because you were curious and you stayed because you found something true, truer than what you knew before.”
“I suppose you’re right. Are you going to rat me out?”
“No, though everyone will notice you when all the faces are washed and the fervor of the performance has passed. We are very close in our circus company.”
“I’d like to stay, please. I can’t go back now, not after what I’ve seen.”
“You will have to speak to my father.”

The Trees on Mt. Baldy

Musings over coffee

The world is an ugly place, and no one likes to think about it, but you cannot ignore the sex offender next door or down the street. I heard of a few people teaching poetry in juvenile hall and it made me wonder, what if there were programs teaching art and poetry in prisons, opening the eyes of sex offenders and others to teach them to give and not take. To teach them to see that the beauty of the world can only be got by giving.
This "must have" mentality that pervades society is in many ways a perversion of a healthy desire for beauty. Recently I went hiking on Mt. Baldy through beautiful trees alongside a stream. At one point there were a few trees completely scarred by the markings of lovebirds and other narcissists wanting to "make their mark on the world." It seems basically human to want to enter in to the beauty we are experiencing, but by cutting up the bark of the tree we damage the very thing we want. We diminish the value when we take. When a rapist takes he diminishes a beautiful thing.
I once saw a mansion with three foot replicas of Michealangelo's David on every fence post. The David is magnificent, but that doesn't mean anyone needs to own it, or display it twenty times over in their front yard. I own hundreds of postcard replicas from museums. I seem to have bought a card for every painting that ever moved me. But the postcards are nearly meaningless. There is an El Greco of St. Francis that I love, because it reminds of the painting that I love, but more so because it was a gift of love from a friend. The others I bought at various places because I thought the experience wouldn't mean anything if I didn't physically take it with me. Strangely, it is the physical representations that have become meaningless over time, not my memory.