The Judge and his wife take their seats for the show, among all the residents of Luddington and he sees even a few come down from Lewiston and there is warmth inside the big tent, the warmth of all the bodies full of life and breath, from different ages and varying stages, but all in the warmth and the sweat and the smell of the nearness of other human bodies and then the lights begin to flicker and the jester enters the tent and he juggles the a mixture of bowling pins and a cleaver
and he drops the cleaver on the foot of the dwarf who had been walking beside him and the
dwarf squawks and hold up his severed foot
and the crowd gasps, and then the dwarf screws his foot back onto the stump of his leg and runs around the ring, arms outstretched. A somersault, then another, and the crowd roars with laughter,
and the triplets have climbed to the top of the poles and take their places as the elephants enter, one after another, with the rider of the first all in top hat and purple coat and skirt, glittered like a wood sprite and
one elephant places hoofs on the back of the other and they dance in cadence side bito side, so close
so close to the posts, almost brushing against it
and the sighs of the crowd is the loudest sound, a sound almost like thunder, as the trapeze swingers
swing high overhead, and
the Ring Master in the center of it all, naming the names:
Hanz! The Laughter Juggler! The Heartthrob of Hapsburg!
Corrine, Coraline, and Caroline, the Trapeze Triplets! All the way from Glasgow town!
Simone, the lovely Parisienne, and her two owners, Jules and Verne, those gentle giants of the African veldt!
Boris and Doris, Mr and Mrs Pretzel, contortionists from Constantinople!
... NOT ISTANBUL! (he adds as a stage whisper, to the laughter of the audience, and then)
not to forget Shorty Saragoza, the funniest and friendliest friend any one could ever know, all the way from Florence in Italia!
And I am your host for the evening, Sebastien Salinghetti. My parents told me I was from Cyprus, but I never know whether they birthed me there, or stole me from the market square!
After the laughter subsides, the triplets glide
across the air from one to the other side
each leap longer than the one before, as the sisters
fly above the heads of the eyes wide until
one misses,
hands grasping open air,
a sudden sucking sound of the crowd
as the trapeze swinger tumbles toward the ground, a twist
a mid-air turn,
a land plant on the back of Jules
or Wells,
she stretches her hands upward to the cheers.
And Sebastien says,
And that, dear friends, is the bewonderment of Life,
as you know, each day we reach
and we reach and we reach a little further, and
when we miss, and when we fall,
we all must find a place to land.
Let your place to land, forever be,
the Mad Carnival,
Because while we may be mad,
we know we are mad,
while so many in the world outside this carnival,
they are mad yet don't know it!
Sometimes you have to admit
that you are mad
so that you may have the chance
to find the ground
of your own fleeting sanity!
With that, he dips deeply, while the rest
of the show
goes on.
Saturday, October 19, 2019
Overread at Booth 2: from #MadCarnival "Saturday Afternoon"
SATURDAY AFTERNOON IN LUDDINGTON
**
Tree house, back yard, Billy Wilson’s
Tommy is reading the new Shadow magazine.
Billy, sorting marbles, says, “Sucks they wouldn’t let us in the Freak
Show.”
Tommy says, “I got an idea.
Tonight we’re getting in. We go
around back
and crawl under the tent.”
Billy, “You think that’ll work?
What if they see us?”
Tommy, “We just move fast. So
much stuff is going on, nobody’ll notice us.”
Billy, “Do you think they really have a three-legged man?”
Tommy, “No … beCAUSE…”
Both, “HE RAN AWAY!!”
Tommy and Billy laugh together at their new shared joke, and then Billy
admits, “Whenever I see Betty Carson, I feel like a three-legged man.”
Tommy looks up from the Shadow and says, “That’s gross, Billy. But … yeah, I can kinda understand.”
Billy says, “So I guess that means summer’s really over then?”
Tommy, “Yes. Summer’s over and
done. But we got the Mad Carnival for
one more night tonight!”
**
Judge Halbert’s House, Back Yard
The Judge and his wife bringing their garden for the winter.
He, with spade at one end of the flower bed
She, on knees at the other, packing manure around the perennials.
She: You should come with me to the Mad Carnival tonight.
He: Aww, Florence, you know I don’t really go for all those lights and
noise.
She: You could just come with me to talk to the Fortune Teller.
He: Tell me you didn’t.
She wipes her gloved hands on her pants. She looks up at him: Yes, why yes I did.
He smiles wanly: and what did she fill your head with?
Florence Halbert pushes herself up from the ground and walks the few
steps to her husband kisses him on the cheek: She said I have an honorable man
for a husband who will love me until the end of my days on this earth. THAT’s what she filled my head with! Now, do you want some tea?
The Judge leans on his shovel as he watches his wife walk up the wooden
steps and through the screen door of the porch.
He: Well, I would say that Fortune Teller really CAN predict the
future.
**
At the Church of Saint Philip the Evangelist
The Pastor sits in his office at the church.
Writing his sermon for tomorrow.
Or, trying to …
images of dancing flames, the
liquid frame, her shoulders,
her lips,
her hips,
her thighs,
lit by orange and yellow
light,
the fire in her eyes …
The Pastor feels a burning
in his lungs, he wonders if
this is how
brimstone
tastes,
down deep
in the deepest depths
where there is
the end of breath.
**
At the police station
Frankie is talking to his mother who has moved down to New Orleans, where
she lives with her new husband. He
says, “… the Mad Carnival is in town.
Two nights. It’s really
wild. They got a merry-go-round, and a
lady who eats flaming swords, a juggler who juggles knives. Tonight they are going to have a big show in
the tent … elephants, trapeze artists, it’s going to be a great show …
what? … uh, no, they hardly ever come to
town … no, they pretty much keep to themselves … well, for Catholics, they’re
not all that bad, I mean, they’re GERMAN Catholics. It’s not like they’re Irish, or worse:
MEXICANS!”
**
At the Mad Carnival
Simone brushes one of the elephants, humming
But if this ditty is not so pretty
At least it'll tell you
How great you are.
At least it'll tell you
How great you are.
You're the top!
You're the Coliseum.
You're the top!
You're the Coliseum.
You're the top!
“You’re the louver museum,” says Ekataryna, who had walked up behind
without Simone noticing.
“Grab that other brush and help me get them ready for the show,” Simone
says.
Ekataryna looks at the brush on the ground beside the bucket of water and
picks it up, walking over to the front of the elephant. She says, “Is this one Jules or Wells?”
Simone smiles, “You don’t know?
I thought you KNEW all and SEE all.”
The woman replies, “I do. But I
am just not good with names.”
“This one is Jules,” she says as she moves around toward the back,
testing the leather strap of the blanket and saddle that is strapped to the
grey torso of the creature.
Ekataryna looks into the elephant’s eyes and says, “You will do a very wonderful
thing tonight.”
Simone, coming around the other side, hearing this, says, “Well, of
course. They are both going to be the stars
of the show.”
“I mean after that.”
Simone puts the brush to her side and blows a waft of hair from her
eye. “You know I hate when you do
that. Just speak plain, woman.”
“I have said what I have said. I
will say no more.”
“Well,” Simone says, “then brush more and say less. Wells over there is lost for attention.”
Wells, upon hearing her name, tilts her head and lifts her trunk to let
out one trumpet. Then, she stomps her left
foot on the ground, one time.
“Still thirsty, Wells?” Simone asks.
“OK, then, let’s go back to the stream.”
Friday, October 18, 2019
Overread at Booth 2: from #MadCarnival - "Friday Afternoon at the Station"
October, 1935
Luddington, Iowa
Police Station
Sheriff Jerry Latham
Deputy Frankie Cook
Frankie is reading last month's Dime Detective, while the Sheriff is reclined in his chair, which squeaks against the weight of his back. His hat is pulled down over his eyes, but he is facing the front window, which looks out onto the street into the window of the barber shop on the other side. The Sheriff assumes this pose so that he can rest his eyes, but can immediately open them should ever anyone step inside.
In his half-slumber on a quiet afternoon, he tries never to fold into a full sleep. When he does sleep, he often dreams the sweet, spicy smell of horseradish. Then, in the dream, the smell dissipates, and he is surrounded by the bodies of dead soldiers, his brothers, men he barely knew.
"What time we heading out to the Mad Carnival, Sheriff?" says Frankie.
"In about an hour or so," replies the Sheriff. "Good to take a look around, make sure everything is on the up and up. You know, sturdy and not going to fall down on anybody."
"Wow, Sheriff, I didn't know you were an expert on such things."
"I'm not. They don't know that. We'll just go out there and act like we do and from their reactions, we should be able to tell if THEY are experts on such things."
"You're pretty smart, did I ever tell you that?"
"On occasion, Frankie, yes you have."
Frankie puts down the Dime Detective and stands up and hikes up his belt higher around his waist. Then, he walks toward the door and notices the schoolmarm, Eliza, headed toward the Church.
"School's out," he says, idly.
"We might want to get started then," says the Sheriff. "The kids will be running over to the field to get first tickets into the circus."
"Do you think those Germans will come down?"
"You mean the folk from Lewiston?" asks the Sheriff.
"Yeah, do you think we'll have to worry about 'em?"
"What's to worry about? The only person who ever has a problem with them is Farmer Talbot, and he's always half in the sauce and railing on about little green men from Mars!"
"Well," says Frankie, looking out the window as though expecting to see Eliza come back out of the church, "they're just strange folk, you know, they never really come down into town except about once a month or so, and they're just so ... well ... foreign."
"Frankie, their people been here since '94. They are certainly not 'foreign'."
"You know what I mean, Sheriff, well, you fought the Krauts in the Great War, you more than anybody know what they're like."
"I know what Krauts are like and I know what the Dusseldorfs and the Niehauses over in Lewiston are like and neither group are alike in the slightest. That's what I know."
"You're a good man, Sheriff."
"You don't have to say that, Frankie."
"I kind of think of you like a father, sometimes."
"Don't say that, son. Half the time I don't even like talking to you all that much."
"See?" Frankie says, "You’re JUST like my father!
Wednesday, October 16, 2019
Overread at Table 1: from Mad Carnival, "Showdown at Horace's General Store"
Years later, Tommy will recall this episode as “The Showdown at Horace’s General Store”
Sheriff Latham walks into Horace’s General Store to see two of the carnies standing in front of the counter, upon which are several sacks filled with groceries, and Horace, red-faced and puffing like a mad hen, a look that the Sheriff is all-too familiar with seeing, as Horace is well known around Luddington for being easily offended and even more easily angered.
The carnies, one man and one woman, on the other hand, are what the Sheriff would call, “unknown commodities,” and he approached them with the caution that he uses for all new situations, which is generally to consider them as unpredictable as a rabid Great Dane until he was assured otherwise.
He starts with his name. “Good afternoon. I’m Sheriff Latham, and this is my Deputy, Franklin Cook. How can we be of assistance?”
“You can be of assistance, Sheriff, by having them go get me some REAL money?” Horace interjects.
“That IS real money, you foolish little man!” says the female.
“And what is your name, miss?” asks the Sheriff.
“Simone. And this is Sebastien …” she waves a hand in his direction, and Sebastien tips his hat. Sebastien is smiling the smile of a man who is content to watch the penny theatre unfold before him. Or, the Sheriff correctly assumes, Sebastien already knows better than to get in the way of Simone when she is angry, which is clear by the way her hands wave through the air as though her fingernails are rapiers in an fencing match.
“… and they are trying to pass off this phony carny money!” Horace spits, apparently not understanding that he is almost to the point of receiving a high outside.
“It’s NOT phony carny money!” says Simone. “It’s REAL currency of the United States of America!”
The bills are spread out on the counter in front of Horace, like cards dealt from a deck. He holds one up and hands it to the Sheriff for inspection. “Look at it! It doesn’t look like a real dollar bill! It’s says ‘ONE DOLLAR’ where it isn’t supposed to be, and the back is all wrong!”
“These are real bills,” says Sebastien. “We got them in Philadelphia.”
“Oooh!” says Horace, mockingly. “All the way from PhilaDELPHia!”
“Or Chicago,” Sebastien shrugs.
“Sheriff,” says Simone, “I don’t know why this son of a … hound with full paps ... is giving us the royal runaround, but we have good money, and we want to use that good money to buy these provisions for our company.”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” says Deputy Frankie, “but surely these can’t be the only bills you got. Can’t you use any of your other bills?”
“It’s an hour back to where we are setting up the carnival … and then an hour back here … and then an hour back,” she says. “We need to feed our carnies and help get the carnival set up.”
“I thought all you gypsy-types made your own food,” says Horace.
“All people occasionally like to eat something that hasn’t come straight out of the stew pot!” she snaps back.
“OK, OK,” says the Sheriff. “Horace, why don’t we have Tommy here run over to the bank and ask Bill about whether these are real?”
“Bill’s spending the week with his wife and her folk over in Windsor County.”
The Sheriff pauses. He looks around for the spittoon, which, for some reason, has been moved from its usual place. When he finds it, he spits into it, and then says, “Here’s what I’ll do … I take your dollar bills that you got in Philadelphia or Chicago, and Horace, I’ll give you my five one-dollar bills that look like the dollar bills you’re used to seeing, and then these nice folks can take their provisions back to their crew so that the … show may go on.”
Sebastien grins. “Good one, Sheriff!”
Horace sputters. Then he fumes. Then he says, “But! They’re buying ALL my licorice!”
“Now you’re just being small, Horace,” says the Sheriff.
“And our biggest workers, they love licorice!” says Simone.
“But I won’t have any for the kids!” Horace says. “Look at Tommy there! He’s so sad that all the licorice will be gone.”
Suddenly all eyes turn on Tommy. When recounting the story as an adult, he will say that it was the first time that adults had ever asked his opinion on anything, and he realized at that moment that there are times when a person must weigh their words carefully, because they can change the course of a situation.
“Well,” says Tommy, “I mean, if it will make the Carnival workers happy, and since they are here to put on a show for the whole town, I don’t mind waiting until you get more licorice next week.”
And thus the matter is settled. The Sheriff takes the bills minted by the United States Treasury in 1935 and hands over bills from his own pocket. Simone and Sebastien pick up the bags and make their way toward the door.
As Simone passes by Tommy, she says, “Thanks, kid. You got a good heart.” She hands him one long stick of black licorice. Then she looks back at the Sheriff, “And you … I don’t know about you yet. You might have a good heart.”
The Sheriff spits again into the spittoon.
Horace, as everyone sidles out of his store, looks down at his corpulent girth, and then he squishes his puffy pectorals, and mumbles, “Hound with full paps?”
Sheriff Latham walks into Horace’s General Store to see two of the carnies standing in front of the counter, upon which are several sacks filled with groceries, and Horace, red-faced and puffing like a mad hen, a look that the Sheriff is all-too familiar with seeing, as Horace is well known around Luddington for being easily offended and even more easily angered.
The carnies, one man and one woman, on the other hand, are what the Sheriff would call, “unknown commodities,” and he approached them with the caution that he uses for all new situations, which is generally to consider them as unpredictable as a rabid Great Dane until he was assured otherwise.
He starts with his name. “Good afternoon. I’m Sheriff Latham, and this is my Deputy, Franklin Cook. How can we be of assistance?”
“You can be of assistance, Sheriff, by having them go get me some REAL money?” Horace interjects.
“That IS real money, you foolish little man!” says the female.
“And what is your name, miss?” asks the Sheriff.
“Simone. And this is Sebastien …” she waves a hand in his direction, and Sebastien tips his hat. Sebastien is smiling the smile of a man who is content to watch the penny theatre unfold before him. Or, the Sheriff correctly assumes, Sebastien already knows better than to get in the way of Simone when she is angry, which is clear by the way her hands wave through the air as though her fingernails are rapiers in an fencing match.
“… and they are trying to pass off this phony carny money!” Horace spits, apparently not understanding that he is almost to the point of receiving a high outside.
“It’s NOT phony carny money!” says Simone. “It’s REAL currency of the United States of America!”
The bills are spread out on the counter in front of Horace, like cards dealt from a deck. He holds one up and hands it to the Sheriff for inspection. “Look at it! It doesn’t look like a real dollar bill! It’s says ‘ONE DOLLAR’ where it isn’t supposed to be, and the back is all wrong!”
“These are real bills,” says Sebastien. “We got them in Philadelphia.”
“Oooh!” says Horace, mockingly. “All the way from PhilaDELPHia!”
“Or Chicago,” Sebastien shrugs.
“Sheriff,” says Simone, “I don’t know why this son of a … hound with full paps ... is giving us the royal runaround, but we have good money, and we want to use that good money to buy these provisions for our company.”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” says Deputy Frankie, “but surely these can’t be the only bills you got. Can’t you use any of your other bills?”
“It’s an hour back to where we are setting up the carnival … and then an hour back here … and then an hour back,” she says. “We need to feed our carnies and help get the carnival set up.”
“I thought all you gypsy-types made your own food,” says Horace.
“All people occasionally like to eat something that hasn’t come straight out of the stew pot!” she snaps back.
“OK, OK,” says the Sheriff. “Horace, why don’t we have Tommy here run over to the bank and ask Bill about whether these are real?”
“Bill’s spending the week with his wife and her folk over in Windsor County.”
The Sheriff pauses. He looks around for the spittoon, which, for some reason, has been moved from its usual place. When he finds it, he spits into it, and then says, “Here’s what I’ll do … I take your dollar bills that you got in Philadelphia or Chicago, and Horace, I’ll give you my five one-dollar bills that look like the dollar bills you’re used to seeing, and then these nice folks can take their provisions back to their crew so that the … show may go on.”
Sebastien grins. “Good one, Sheriff!”
Horace sputters. Then he fumes. Then he says, “But! They’re buying ALL my licorice!”
“Now you’re just being small, Horace,” says the Sheriff.
“And our biggest workers, they love licorice!” says Simone.
“But I won’t have any for the kids!” Horace says. “Look at Tommy there! He’s so sad that all the licorice will be gone.”
Suddenly all eyes turn on Tommy. When recounting the story as an adult, he will say that it was the first time that adults had ever asked his opinion on anything, and he realized at that moment that there are times when a person must weigh their words carefully, because they can change the course of a situation.
“Well,” says Tommy, “I mean, if it will make the Carnival workers happy, and since they are here to put on a show for the whole town, I don’t mind waiting until you get more licorice next week.”
And thus the matter is settled. The Sheriff takes the bills minted by the United States Treasury in 1935 and hands over bills from his own pocket. Simone and Sebastien pick up the bags and make their way toward the door.
As Simone passes by Tommy, she says, “Thanks, kid. You got a good heart.” She hands him one long stick of black licorice. Then she looks back at the Sheriff, “And you … I don’t know about you yet. You might have a good heart.”
The Sheriff spits again into the spittoon.
Horace, as everyone sidles out of his store, looks down at his corpulent girth, and then he squishes his puffy pectorals, and mumbles, “Hound with full paps?”
Monday, October 7, 2019
Sunset Rubdown "Silver Moons"
Sunset Rubdown
Silver Moons
confetti floats away like dead leaves in the
wagon's wake
there were parties here in my honor til you sent me away
and now silver moons belong to you
i'm passing the baton from the old mare to the fawn
it was out of line but it was fun, didn't you love the part right before the dawn?
and now silver moons belong to you
i'm off to the ballet and to practice all these ancient ways
tell the new kids where i hid the wine, tell their fathers that i'm on my way, and say:
maybe these days are over, over now
maybe these days are over, over now
and i loved it better than anyone else you know
and i believe in growing old with grace
i believe she only loved my face
i believe i acted like a child
making faces at acquired tastes
and now silver moons belong to you
and silver moons belong to you
i'm off to the ballet and to practice all these ancient ways
tell the new kids where i hid the wine, tell their fathers that i'm on my way, and say:
maybe these days are over, over now
i think maybe these days are over, over now
i believe in growing old with grace
i believe she only loved my face
and i think maybe these days are over, over now
gone are the days bonfires make me think of you
looks like the prophecy came true
you are a fallen tree, he is a fallen tree
how old are you, no, how old are you?
under all the folds of your dresses that you wear
there's an ocean and a tide and a riot in the square
over are the days that the congas made your hair
sway around to the cadence of your hey ho hey ho cheer
under all the folds of the dresses that you wear
sway around to the cadence of your voice when you sang there
there were parties here in my honor til you sent me away
and now silver moons belong to you
i'm passing the baton from the old mare to the fawn
it was out of line but it was fun, didn't you love the part right before the dawn?
and now silver moons belong to you
i'm off to the ballet and to practice all these ancient ways
tell the new kids where i hid the wine, tell their fathers that i'm on my way, and say:
maybe these days are over, over now
maybe these days are over, over now
and i loved it better than anyone else you know
and i believe in growing old with grace
i believe she only loved my face
i believe i acted like a child
making faces at acquired tastes
and now silver moons belong to you
and silver moons belong to you
i'm off to the ballet and to practice all these ancient ways
tell the new kids where i hid the wine, tell their fathers that i'm on my way, and say:
maybe these days are over, over now
i think maybe these days are over, over now
i believe in growing old with grace
i believe she only loved my face
and i think maybe these days are over, over now
gone are the days bonfires make me think of you
looks like the prophecy came true
you are a fallen tree, he is a fallen tree
how old are you, no, how old are you?
under all the folds of your dresses that you wear
there's an ocean and a tide and a riot in the square
over are the days that the congas made your hair
sway around to the cadence of your hey ho hey ho cheer
under all the folds of the dresses that you wear
sway around to the cadence of your voice when you sang there
Tuesday, October 1, 2019
Overread at Table 3: Haiku for the day...
Haiku for a Picnic by a Stream in a Valley
Crystal clear waters.
Hunter green, the sunlit glen.
Slumber afternoon.
MR
2019-1001
Crystal clear waters.
Hunter green, the sunlit glen.
Slumber afternoon.
MR
2019-1001
Saturday, September 28, 2019
Overread at Table 2: After Reading "Tomboy" by Claudia Masin
After Reading "Tomboy" by Claudia Masin
What are these shackles that we have placed upon our children?
When my son was eight, he thought he was made of
wood.
His best friend was a stick named "Steve" and
he wanted to be like his best friend, to be a tree.
And no, we did not tell him that he was made of
wood, and we did not tell him that he was a tree.
Because he was a he and he was not a tree,
and this may seem silly, you see, in this pretend modern
world where our skin is static an dour tone shames us
into shades of classes floating a sliding scale among
Colonizer, Oppressor, and Victim;
but our sex, regardless of organs, our sex is seemingly
fluid like the ocean, our sex can change like the rising tide
the ins and outs of the waves against the malleable sands
of ever changing beaches, and I am left with the singular knowledge
and remembrance of Scout from that
black and white movie "To Kill a Mockingbird,"
were it to be released in
2019, Scout would be considered non-conforming transgender,
but back in that throwback ancient stone-age era of 1962,
she was nothing more than a girl who liked to climb trees.
MR
2019-0928
What are these shackles that we have placed upon our children?
When my son was eight, he thought he was made of
wood.
His best friend was a stick named "Steve" and
he wanted to be like his best friend, to be a tree.
And no, we did not tell him that he was made of
wood, and we did not tell him that he was a tree.
Because he was a he and he was not a tree,
and this may seem silly, you see, in this pretend modern
world where our skin is static an dour tone shames us
into shades of classes floating a sliding scale among
Colonizer, Oppressor, and Victim;
but our sex, regardless of organs, our sex is seemingly
fluid like the ocean, our sex can change like the rising tide
the ins and outs of the waves against the malleable sands
of ever changing beaches, and I am left with the singular knowledge
and remembrance of Scout from that
black and white movie "To Kill a Mockingbird,"
were it to be released in
2019, Scout would be considered non-conforming transgender,
but back in that throwback ancient stone-age era of 1962,
she was nothing more than a girl who liked to climb trees.
MR
2019-0928
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)