Rollercoaster

Joining the circus is a lot more difficult than playground mythology would have you believe. To begin with, they don't tend to be hiring unless you're already an established performer or have family connections -- not even if you're willing to work for cotton candy. Secondly, they expect you to have some kind of a skill, and they do not include "sequin sewing" among them, (which I think you'll agree is rather foolish).

The only good way around this is schooling, unless you can marry a circus performer (and they're generally hard to meet unless you already are one. Catch-22). While clown colleges are not too difficult to find, I don't want to be a clown -- at least not an American clown. I want to do the other stuff -- trapeeze, stiltwalking, highwire, slackrope, juggling, puppetry, contortion, sleight of hand, object manipulation. . .

This leaves me with three options. Three reputable circus arts schools: one in San Francisco, one in Bristol, and one in Montreal. There's no way I could get into the school in Montreal, (which is a feeder for Cirque de Soleil,) any more than I could get into Jim Henson's Creature Shop. (Yet. Someday, Henson. Someday.)

So, two.

I'm strangely averse to the San Francisco school. I can't work out why; it's just a gut feeling, that screaming siren that tells me something terrible would happen there. This is a great pity, because San Fran is the most convenient, and I have an offer to apprentice there with one of this country's foremost experimental puppeteers, at no cost to me, with room and board included.

I wish I knew what was wrong with San Francisco.

That leaves Circomedia, in Bristol, with which I am thoroughly infatuated. Cor, it's lovely. I don't know what I'll do if they reject me; either decry them as fools to all and sundry or sit on their doorstep and refuse to leave until they change their minds or have me deported.

The first step to getting into Circomedia is to send in an application; the second is to audition. Auditioning means coming up with a three minute performance piece, and trying to come up with one has made me realize that it's been almost two years since I last stood in front of an audience, even at a coffeehouse poetry reading. It's been a year and a half since I've even appeared on film, discounting home movies. This is something I've been actively not thinking about, because my skin starts prickling when I do. I define myself as an actor, a musician, a comedian, a performer -- and yet the closest I get now is journal entries and closed dojo sessions.

It's really remarkable that I'm not more unhappy than I am.

If I don't get into the circus, I think I may very well go insane. Really and truly insane, run-into-walls-and-drool-on-myself insane and not just the flirtations with psychosis that I've tried in the past. I'll probably still write; I'll probably still write very well; but that's probably all I'll do. I'll be like one of those women in The Feminine Mystique who graduated from Smith or Vassar to become a suburban housewife.

Val says I should at least come to Japan with her and go insane there instead of moving to Boston and going insane in The Parents' house. Maybe I will. When I'm insane, I won't really care where I am. Maybe I can even bring in a meager income with my writing, not be so much of a financial burden (nor need a Japanese visa, if it comes to that). But I'll probably depress the people around me, and I hate to do that. I just don't know that I'll be able to avoid it.

Now how the hell do I showcase my performance strengths in three minutes?