Clown School Break Day 15: The Lightness Advantage

In which Our Hero learns that ease is its own form of status.

The skills of upper-class social engagement and the skills of clowning: shockingly similar.

Can you keep it light—even when the topic isn’t?
Can you remember the game? That this is a game. That life is a game. And the more you remember it’s a game, the less you’ll feel poked. The less you feel poked, the less likely you’ll commit a faux pas.

When meeting someone new:
Can you stay present? Open? Emotionally available? Can you find pleasure in what they’re saying, find pleasure in yourself, and entertain yourself while entertaining them?
Do you make eye contact instead of studying the floor or the ceiling?

Can you jump to the new game quickly?
Roll with the punches without letting irritation leak? Or if you do get irritated, can you metabolize it quietly so others don’t feel it?

In short: are you easy?

Even shorter: be social soy sauce: enhancing whatever flavor is already present.
Do not be social tofu (merely a warm body), nor wasabi (adding too much kick), and certainly not ginger (an entirely unrelated taste altogether).

Some people don’t need to be easy. They have structural reasons to be included—money, skills, status, connections. Their mere existence provides value.

If you have those advantages, you can afford a little heaviness.

But if you lack them, ease becomes an important asset.

I met someone today who was surprised to learn a fairly large fact about her husband.

I get that.
It’s also foreign to me.

When one (A) has enough happening that there’s no need to narrate every detail, and (B) is so deeply present with others when actually together, the result is fewer facts shared and more connection felt. This is an instance of putting the text on the game.

Perhaps these people live such driven, full lives that they don’t need to lean on each other for conversational ballast. They’re satisfied by the things they’re doing. Their overlaps shrink. Their presence expands.

Maybe this is why the skills of social ease and clowning feel so linked for me. I had to learn lightness. I had to learn the game. I had to learn to entertain myself, then others, and to orient toward warmth and pleasantness.

Other people don’t always need those skills. They build companies, hire teams, command rooms, confer opportunities. What do I confer? Stories. Emotional resonance. Connection.

I’ve lived as a writer for the last decade. I’ve flown around the world, lived in a van, written books, attended clown school, played competitive pickleball, lived as an œstrogen-powered life form. These things made me interesting, but they did not give me structural advantages to hand out.

What I offer is not leverage. It’s wisdom. Presence. Delight.

So it sure as hell helps if I’m light.

Airy.
Gentle.
Easy.
Fun.
Funny.
Generous.
Kind.

This makes it possible to add me to your car, to your dinner, to your team. It makes me someone who lightens your load, even when you carry me on your shoulders.

But when I’m heavy?

Well.

🎈

Clown School Day 25: Successful Elements

In which Our Hero’s class sets records.

Today, our class succeeded. Five of us earned fives, two earned sixes, and many of the rest pulled in strong marks. Even I received a “not bad” for one of my two performances. (The other got a zero.)

Why did today work so well? 

  • First, we were all pulling for each other. Cheers before and after each performance. We didn’t previously do this. It’s very helpful to your peers. 
  • Second, the exercise was fundamentally fun: embody an element (earth, fire, water, air). Enjoyable to do, and powerful enough to allow for layering the text gently atop. 
  • Third, the exercise was simple. Embody an element. Low stakes.

My first element was fire. One line in, I lost the text. They kicked me off for it: six hours of memorization, gone. The takeaway: start memorizing on Monday. Use sleep cycles for the memorizing. Earlier, lighter memorization beats late, intense memorization. 

My fire received these notes: 

  • “This is not fire. This is fire with petrol.” 
  • “When he starts to speak, we see something. He is sensitive. I think, ‘Ah, something is coming.’”

My second element was snow.

I began with the same image as yesterday. I watched it. I barely moved. I started saying the text (the same text as we used for fire). The teacher yelled: “Shut up!” then “Move!” then “Snow falling down from the sky!”, then repeated these three over and over. (Said one friend: “It seems funny to me that you’re asked to memorize lines but then she doesn’t actually want you to say them”.)

My favorite part was that she said “Shut up” and “You talk too much!” after nearly every sound I made—and several times when I wasn’t speaking. She’s freakishly skilled at spotting when I’m reciting text in my head. This is an impressive superpower. I need a big, strong, vivid image to overpower my love of text. Or maybe to make myself brilliant enough to be dumb: know the text well enough to forget it, but still have it when I need… #writerproblems

A few notes from the day:

  • The exercise that gives you the breakthrough isn’t necessarily the one you should perform. (I possibly should have done Earth, not Snow.)
  • When the rhythm of the lines matches the rhythm of the movement, it becomes boring.
  • What I like doesn’t always matter. The audience tells me what they like.

Head Teacher’s comments on my snow: 

  • “Not bad, but this is not snow.”
  • “You need good humor always. Something funny in your mind.”
  • “Even when you aren’t speaking, we see you speaking text.”
  • “You were sensitive.”

Teacher comments to others (because they’re funny):

  • “This is ‘theater de mi cajones.’ You know what it means? It means theater of my balls.”
  • “It’s a good image but it doesn’t arrive to us because of your shitty voice.”

Memorizing the lines isn’t actually that important. Being able to say the lines is. If you only know the first three, you can still earn great marks if you perform them well (*cough* one of my roommates *cough*).

I over-invested in learning the lines. I under-invested in being able to do the lines while doing the exercise. That’s the part I should have practiced. Or visualized. Or practiced and visualized.

Just because the assignment involved memorizing lines does not mean the assignment is to share the lines you memorized. Ain’t clowning great? 

My goal this week was sensitivity/openness/gentleness. Today showed more glimpses (I opened briefly during Fire, and on-and-off during snow). I’ll keep working on this. For now, it’s nice to be landing it more often. 

I received a zero and a “not bad.” The zero came with a comment that I was sensitive and open. Win. The “not bad” came with the same comment. I’m improving at this key trait. 

Intensity: check. Voice: powerful. Game: reliable. Impulse: alive.

Sensitivity/gentleness/openness/giving: getting there, if only Our Hero would shut up.

Clown School Day 22: Storm Warning

In which Our Hero mistakes force for generosity.

Today I was a storm. A mighty tempest, raging.
I had INTENSITY. I had GIVING.
But… I was pushing.

Well, shit. I keep hearing this feedback, don’t I?
One classmate keeps being told he looks like a gorilla who needs a banana, so at least my comment wasn’t that.
But still: pushing.

Yes, pushing. Pushing. PUSHING!!!
The thing I do in all too many areas of life.
I want X to happen, so I force it into existence.
I want to avoid Y, so I shove it away.
I don’t really nurture things. I don’t calmly cultivate.

And when I perform with such intensity—without either (A) checking in with the audience, or (B) easing up enough to wink that it’s all a game—people find it frightening.

Maybe that’s the problem.
My performance curve—intensity vs. time—starts high and just stays there.
But it should breathe: rise, relax to dip slightly, rise higher, dip again.
We don’t want someone who punches full-force out of the gate.
We want someone who plays with us, gently escalating.

I demonstrate competence, but not alignment.
And that feels familiar.
Maybe I’m just not well-aligned.

I don’t like authority.
I don’t trust institutions.
I rarely side with the masses.
So people don’t trust me?
Am I fundamentally out of sync?

It’s odd to feel both like a lump of clay being molded, and an alien dropped into a land with a new language.

Clown school does weird things to your psychology.
I’m doubting a lot—really a lot.
Questioning my preferences, my desires.
Wondering where my heart and my head line up.

I’m not used to being part of a group.
After decades of being ostracized from them—since kindergarten—I now both crave belonging and violently resist it.

Here, I must give to the group.
I chose performance as a solitary act: me and the audience, a controlled parasocial exchange.
Turns out: no.

Clowning is about relation. Taking and giving.
And I’m trying to give so hard.
I just want them to like me.

But I’m not actually likable when I’m like that.
Because a truly likable person doesn’t need to be liked.
They simply are kind, generous, and light.
They offer themselves, and we like them for it.

It’s telling that my first thought was, “I should do an impression of that kind of person.”
Because underneath it all… I don’t think I am one.

Maybe that’s the real problem.

“Hey, therapist: I’ve got a topic for us!”

Clown School Day 7: First Impulse

In which Our Hero fails via simian ejaculation

“At the sound of the drum, you must make the sound of an animal ten seconds before it has an orgasm,” said our teacher, in his typical Swedish accent.

I chose my animal. I spotted others’ mistakes. I planned my route. I considered the method by which I was likely to fail. And then, when the time came, I failed. Bombed. Flopped. Crashed. Kathunked.

We were playing a game of cannibal chairs. It’s exactly like musical chairs, except your teacher is from Sweden. And when you’re out, if your animal’s orgasm is enjoyable enough, you’re saved.

Some students latch on to the impulse right away. They grab the failure and they start DOing. Prancing about the stage; braying like a donkey; mooing like an aroused cow, etc. Others take a beat. I decided I would be in the second category.

My first impulse is often fear. So I decided I’d wait. Take the second. Build the second wave instead of grasping at the first splash. First impulse is for those who ride external energy; second is for those who find it inside.

I noticed this dichotomy when a friend failed to find a chair, then walked to the side of the room, thunked the wall, and began his performance. The three seconds pause allowed him to collect himself. When he arrived, he arrived. His face was open, eyes shining. We loved him. Life saved.

When I failed, I latched onto the first impulse. I flailed. Yuck.

My first impulse was, as it so often is, fear.

My second impulse. Security. Comfort. Presence. That can be beautiful.

Another lesson I will need to incorporate.

One I have learned before.

Perhaps one day my first impulse will lack fear. Perhaps one day it will be honed enough to succeed. Until then, it is mere panic. And panic has no place in clown.