Tag: Comedy

​​Clown School Day 32: Fear & Loathing

JulianLeave a comment

In which Our Hero gently invites his classmates to find pleasure in their fear.

[I wrote this earlier today, before a long and insightful conversation with my roommate. By the vacillations of clown school, I’m not sure how much I still endorse or will endorse tomorrow. How’s that for a cop-out? 🤡]

Another shit day at clown school. I should frighten other students more.

Listen:

Earlier today we were playing dodgeball. Someone on the opposing team had the ball and motioned toward me. I ran away, bumped into a teammate, and she let out a startled little yelp, plus an admonishment along the lines of “come on guys, it’s a game.”

Later in that same match, I leapt to grab a ball, robbing the opposing team of a catch, like stealing a home run but dodgeball-style. A player said, “Chill out.” The first person would probably call themselves unathletic. The second, not very competitive.

Okay.

Sure.

What of it?

Sidebar: clown school is populated far more by theatre nerds than athletes. I’m probably the best all-around athlete in my class—not the strongest or tallest, just the one with the most hunger to win and the actual ability to put that into reality. So why is it not showing up?

After her yelp, I shrank back. I became smaller, gentler, duller. I had less fun.

But realistically? A little bump between teammates in dodgeball is not a big deal. No one fell. No one got hurt. It was a collision between two moving bodies in a game whose entire premise is hurling projectiles at each other. 

The recent American neurosis of “don’t cause anyone fear ever” does not help me here. Hurting people would be bad. Frightening them? Not inherently. If two people bump into each other while playing dodgeball, the appropriate move is some sort of affectionate “eh, no worries love”. 

But I’ve been avoiding frightening people. And it’s getting in the way of my clowning.

The first time I truly succeeded on stage was when I FINALLY LET LOOSE. A demon burst out of my sternum and shat poop-colored rainbows across the stage.

The teacher told me to tone it down, apologize, and bring the same energy with more sensitivity.

The second time I started from a light, airy emotional place: gentle by nature, and the power followed.

Today the feedback is that I lack impulse. And the truth is: I felt it. In the afternoon class, I wasn’t powering with impulse at all. I was stuck in my head, nitpicking the pedagogy (correctly, but uselessly). I couldn’t find pleasure in anything.

I hate being in this oscillation space.

My roommate disagrees with my whole “frighten them more” instinct.
He thinks I’m conflating playing intensely with playing to win (and that playing to win will necessarily not maximize group pleasure).
He says I lack a lightness—a tiny joke kept in the back of my mind.

And maybe he’s right. On stage today, I lost the game. I forgot the game.
I played it well for a few minutes. Then I forgot it.

Never forget the game.

Look.

When I do have impulse, people get scared. That’s the truth. I’m intense. When I try to win at dodgeball, people get quiet and the light, floaty vibe evaporates. Today I had the ball, and an opponent squared up. I pump-faked twice. Then I whammed him.

During that exchange, the room went silent. The airy part of the game vanished.

Did it become another kind of fun?

Is it not fun to watch two gladiators square off? To see combatants toy with another in a spirit of agreed-upon play? Isn’t that a form of respect—acknowledging we both have power and we’re choosing to use it?

Maybe the audience wasn’t laughing. Maybe they were leaning in. I don’t know. Maybe I’m justifying. 

Maybe I should scale it: go hard against the skilled players, soften against the less-skilled. A consent-based approach to dodgeball. (Unless I’m the last one alive. Then it’s win, win, win.)

I don’t know whether it was pleasant to watch me whang that guy. I imagine it was.

I’m six feet tall, bearded, and frequently voracious. Of course people are scared of me. Underneath any coverings I add (silliness, friendliness, gentleness), they may always feel some amount of fear. 

But maybe their fear isn’t a reason for me to shrink.

Maybe their fear is something they get to deal with.

Because otherwise, I become small and boring. I lose my impulse. And that is absolutely not fun for me.

Fear without safety is fear. Fear with safety is exhilaration.

I guess I need to give people that safety.

To clearly show this is a joke.
This whole thing is silly.
Show them in a way that’s obvious to them: I’m not taking myself too seriously: the thing I’m doing is a joke.
And that way, when you fear me, you also feel safe around me.
And that way, even though you fear me; even though you respect me and my intensity, you love me.

Would you rather I be too much or too little?

Right now, at school, too much. They can work with too much. Too little just gets kicked off. 

In general: Dumb question. 

Nurture the fun.

Clown School Day 31: Absolution & Airflow

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In which Our Hero sleeps, sins, and seeks salvation.

At the end of this week, I’m a quarter of the way through this program. That’s wild. Three times as much left as what I’ve already done. No wonder it feels like I’ve lived six different emotional lifetimes.

I told my sister today about our daily Simon Says game. It’s brilliantly constructed. It’s also deranged.

Here’s how it works: when you make a mistake, you must seek absolution. You get to choose your method of redemption. The menu: 

  • Hug
  • Kiss
  • Swedish handshake
  • Nothing
  • Or… torture

If you choose “nothing,” nothing happens. If you choose “torture,” one of the teachers (or a friend, if you prefer) faux-tortures you in front of the class. If you choose one of the other options, you turn to a peer and ask, “Can I have a [hug/kiss/handshake]?”

If they say “yes,” you receive absolution.

If they say anything else—literally anything: “yep” is interpreted as “go to hell”—you get tortured.

My sister was horrified. Honestly, same. The first time we played, I felt like I’d accidentally joined a cult that prioritizes whimsy over human rights. And yet…it works. The faux-torture weirdly brings us together. There’s something intimate about placing your fate in someone else’s hands and trusting they’ll either help you or throw you to the wolves. (And, sometimes we just choose the torture directly: our Assistant Teacher is an exquisite tickler.)

My sister asked why people don’t always say “yes.”
Partially because we’re learning how to ask and receive asks well. So if you ask poorly (not loud enough; emotionally closed; selfish), your odds plummet.
And partially because, well, that’s the game.

—

Last night, for the first time in ages, I slept well. Deeply. My room traps CO₂, so I’ve been sleeping poorly. Last night I cracked open both the window and the shutters. Oxygen: acquired. Primitive problem, elegant solution.

I don’t have much to write about today. My energy feels softer, steadier.

One woman in class has been struggling to find a lower, more powerful voice. Our assistant teacher stood behind her and performed a kind of gentle, low Heimlich maneuver while she screamed “FUCK YOU, [Head Teacher]!” at full volume. It helped. Theatre is strange medicine.

We also explored two new “substances”: oil/petrol/gasoline and superglue. I’m tired of this exercise. Some classmates love it; I don’t. Maybe that’s the point: finding joy in an approach I don’t naturally love. I can learn it. I just don’t yet.

—

I found a partner for Friday’s scene. The task: play contrasting characters who always agree. Hot, fast, smoky oil in perfect harmony with gentle, falling snow: two beings that shouldn’t coexist and yet do.

It might be funny. It might be a disaster. That’s clown school.

—

My goal this week is simple and impossible: be sensitive, be open, be gentle: with my partners, with the audience, with myself. I’ll do the exercises, but the real work is internal.

Do I have pleasure?
If so, am I sharing it with the audience?
If so, am I sharing it with my partner?
Am I playing together, or am I playing alone?

Clown school is hard.
But at least I slept.
And maybe—just maybe—I’ve solved my CO₂ problem.

That would be nice. 👍

Clown School Weekend 6.2: The Rules of Clowning

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In which Our Hero attempts to eff the ineffable.

For weeks I’ve been trying to reverse-engineer what we’re actually doing in clown school.

There are moments in class when something works—a laugh, a tiny eruption of joy—and the teacher says, “Yes, that.” And then there are moments when the entire room goes still and we all collectively realize the joy has petered out.

Our teachers keep highlighting the importance of the game. I kept wishing there were actual rules. Not to restrict play—but to name what’s already happening.

So I wrote them.

This document is the clearest articulation I’ve managed so far of how the “game” of clowning works in the Gaulier school of thought: the goal, the metrics, the tactics, the traps, the physics of pleasure, the difference between Major and Minor, how to avoid killing your own play, why dignity matters, why heaviness kills the audience, and the one rule that seems to underlie everything: maximize total pleasure without harming yourself.

If you’re in clown training, or theatre, or comedy, or anything requiring presence and sensitivity, you may find this helpful. Or validating. Or confusing in a way that becomes helpful later. That’s typically how this school works.

Here is the full writeup. Comments are enabled in case you’re curious or want to poke at any element:

The Rules of Clowning

It covers:

  • What the “goal” of clowning actually is
  • What makes someone an attractive player
  • Why the audience’s pleasure outweighs your own
  • How to find a “good game”
  • How to play it without destroying it
  • Tactics for impulse, aura, dignity, lightness
  • The mechanics of Major/Minor
  • How to play beautifully with partners
  • How to avoid hurting yourself—physically, emotionally, professionally

If you’re not a clown and don’t plan to be one, it still might interest you. Clown logic rhymes with life logic more than we admit: be sensitive, be generous, be open, don’t force things, play the game that’s actually happening instead of the one in your head.

And share your pleasure. People open to you when you do.

Clown School Weekend 6.1: Putting the Text on the Game

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In which Our Hero explains how to tiptoe text ‘top the tulips.

I spoke today with a close friend who reads my blog religiously. He told me he was this close to calling and saying:

“Dude, maybe you should take clown school less seriously.”

But then, he said, he was relieved to see I’d arrived there myself this week.

I taught him something I learned: put the text on top of the game. (Don’t let the text strangle the game.)

He’s a musician, so here’s the analogy I used:

When you play a song on piano, you can think:
C major, F, G, C-flat.
Technical, correct, literal.

Or—you can visualize a volcano erupting. Or summon some vivid, private memory.

The game is that image/memory/emotional source.
The text is the notes—or the words.

If you play the game and let the text sit lightly on top of it, the audience receives two tracks at once. We receive both the notes and something of the image. 

A common mistake is to use the game to “underline” the text.

If you’re imagining Jesus while playing a hymn about Jesus, the audience gets the same information twice. It’s flat.But if you’re imagining a volcano erupting while playing a hymn about Jesus, the audience receives two different tracks. It becomes richer, stranger, more alive. They can’t necessarily name the image, but they can feel its charge. It evokes something personal in them.

Clown School Day 30: Pleasure Under Duress

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In which Our Hero puts on his big boy pants.

Everyone received a mark of zero today. Every. Single. Student. A new record. Some people earned three zeroes; some two; some only one. I loved it.

The teacher says I sometimes laugh when no one else does. “When Julian laugh, he is alone.” Fair enough. Sometimes I’m not laughing at the thing itself, but at what the thing makes me think of. Like a few weeks ago: a group tried to play a game where they became “scared” whenever someone said a word with the sound boo in it. The game was stupid; the play was bad; and the gap between the silliness of the idea and the flatness of the execution made me laugh. It was like watching someone throw themselves at the ground and miss. Delightful.

I received a zero today. I enjoyed it. I don’t care about their grade. That’s just part of the game. I’m glad I succeeded in doing some new things well.

I had one moment onstage—maybe half a second—where it all clicked. Holding my hands in perfect blades (as I was a stick insect), I tried to open a soda bottle. I was having so much fun; I looked ridiculous in my all-gray outfit; the audience laughed. Then one of my partners stole the bottle away, stealing the game from me and thereby ending it.

During the summer course, I heard the head clown teacher say something like “You have found a problem. That is a very special thing for a clown. If you solve it, you will need to find a new problem and that is not always so easy.”

Still, for that instant, I succeeded. 😀

During talkbacks, Head Teacher said: “And this guy [me]. At least he is finally covering his legs.” (I usually wear shorts.) So I raised one pant leg—just a small, innocent reveal. She laughed and looked away, maybe a little embarrassed. I did the same with the other leg. She laughed again. Light, gentle, generous, giving. Success! You’re not only performing when you’re on stage. You’re always performing. [And, well, I was still standing on the stage.]

Today I took the whole class as a joke. A game. A silly thing we’re all doing together. That shift alone made everything feel lighter. It made me more receptive and open.

I found the fun and the games in her comments. I felt lightness all the way through. (Except for the time when she said I laugh alone. I felt hurt and sad and lonely for a moment there. And then I found the lightness and pleasure again 🙂

Monday was my most painful Clown School day yet. On Tuesday, I started to recover. Today, I find the whole exercise funny. Our teacher literally started class with vocal exercises of her pronouncing the word “zero”. After people performed, she sometimes said “[X person] had a good entrance…” and sometimes said “[Y person was a] total catastrophe” yet still gave everyone in that group the same mark: zero. A farcical grading system! A curve with a mean of zero and a standard deviation of also zero! Only needing one number card to hold up! How droll. What a deeply silly ritual.

One student had a few little flashes of something—tiny moments, not the whole piece—and I told her after the show. She lit up, said it was nice of me to say (and said it in the way that people do when they’re authentically touched). We’re all in this together, and a glimpse of success counts.

Somehow, when we’re in rough waters, I find the pleasure more easily than when we’re sailing smooth seas. On Monday, right after everyone’s big triumphs of last Friday, I was the lowest of the low. Perhaps this is part of why I laugh alone. I suppose there’s fun in that discrepancy too.

“What’s funny about suffering?” you may ask.

What isn’t?

—

I think we’re being trained to find pleasure under duress. A clown’s job is to bring pleasure to the audience, they have to mine that pleasure from their own world, and share it. And the world isn’t always gentle: political trouble, personal strife, illness, rough crowds. If I can find pleasure when things go well and also when things go poorly: that’s a kind of success.

They’re training us to be successful clowns. If you’re going to be a truly successful clown, you need more than one safe trick. One peak of pleasure isn’t enough. To find higher peaks and fill your bag with more tricks, you have to explore: try things, fail, fall into valleys, climb out again. Failure is how you map where the fun actually lives. The teachers are training us to fail well so we can explore more freely. The more I flop, the more terrain I get to see. And I better entertain the audience along the way.

Right now, this stick insect finds more pleasure during the poor times.

What a funny thing to be.

P.S. I watched the second-year clown students today. They were also harangued more aggressively than usual. I’m almost certain this is intentional. I approve. When something works, push it to the extreme.

Clown School Day 28: Boring and Dumb

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In which Our Hero learns to befriend his flops.

Americans are pushies.
Not sensitive. Not gentle.
We want it, so we push it.

It’s not attractive. It’s not sensitive. It’s not connected.

—

Today, I was boring. A cause for celebration.

I entered the stage as a mangy, rabid coyote. I loved it. Head Teacher even said I was full of delight and pleasure—but that my pleasure wasn’t reaching the audience.

So she began to chant:
“Boring! Boring! Buh-buh-buh-boring!”

The class joined in. Then I joined in.
And when I joined, they loved me.

I danced; we chanted; I escalated to “…and dumb!” They loved that too. Real humility—not performance, not irony. I was boring! I was dumb! I was ugly. And we loved that together.

We love someone who makes fun of themselves.

After Head Teacher called out a fellow student for pushing too hard, the student offered to jump out the window. The audience laughed. The assistant teacher helped him open it. We laughed again. Excellent pedagogy. Also: improves student-teacher ratio. 

—

After class, I decided to catch the train to Paris. I had four minutes to pack my bag. Then I thought:
Why am I rushing?
This isn’t fun.

So I slowed down. Decided to take the next train. Stopped by the café instead. And since I was going, I figured I might as well bring a cake for my classmates.

I texted the group chat and showed up with cake.
They were so grateful—
—or at least they would have been if any of them had been there.

The café was entirely bereft of clowns. Oops.

I sat outside and chuckled at myself. A homeless man approached. I waved him away out of habit… then called him back and offered cake.

He asked if I had a knife to cut it in two. I didn’t. So he broke it with his hands.

It brought me joy that he stumbled away without saying merci.
It gave me delight to share cake with someone who wanted cake.
It was joyful to see him divide it in half—
—he’s not greedy, after all.

Sometimes your flops are kinder than your successes.
If you stay open, good things arrive.
Clowns don’t need cake; hungry (and drunk?) homeless people do.

—

Another homeless man later refused my cake, saying, “If I ate cake, I would die.”

Good to know the homeless are still French.

—

As I write this, I’ve arrived in Paris to buy makeup and a gray shirt. On Friday, I’ll be a stick bug. For camouflage, I’ve chosen gray: dignified, dull, affectionately geriatric.

At dinner, the woman beside me asked what I do. When I said I study clown, she told me I have a kind and happy aura.

The couple who sat down after her asked what brought me to Paris… and then invited me for Shabbat dinner in New York.

The woman in the makeup shop gave me her number as she wants to go for a walk with me. 

Clearly, I’m doing something right.

—

What’s the lesson from today’s class?
Something about having good humor, laughing at myself, not taking life—or art—too seriously?

Beats me: I’m boring and dumb.

Clown School Day 27: Setting Personal Records

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In which Our Hero anoints with tears.

This above all: to thine own fun be true.

Follow the fun.

Keep the game in mind at all times.

The fun is the game.

Everything else is secondary.

—

Night of 10 Nov

My roommate says I’m trying the hardest of anyone in our class.

I’m inclined to agree.

He also says people hesitate to play with me because I put doing it right ahead of the fun.

Ugh.

This isn’t following the fun.

Ultimately, if you’re non-religious, pleasure is the north star—not just personal pleasure, but shared pleasure. The pleasure of others, of our community, of our kin, etc.

And I’m not having fun. Which contributes to me being antimagnetic. It’s hard to share the fun when you’re not having any.

Ugh.

—

My lack of presence and discomfort with myself is obvious to everyone. I don’t feel safe, so I put up walls.

“Show yourself,” says my roommate. Sure—but which part? What happens when you’ve spent so long performing versions of yourself that you’re not sure who’s underneath? To thyself be true? Who is “thy,” exactly?

—

I keep looking for something that guarantees safety, even if imaginary. This whole game would be easier if I had a God—some collective fiction to provide permanent grounding. I’m thinking of the Christian one because it’s pop culture familiar, but the Old Testament character or even a future sci-fi deity would theoretically work.

But for me, those aren’t options. Not because they’re all bad (though at least one is), but because they aren’t true. And clowning requires earnestness.

So instead I shall lean on the One True God: a baseball-sized obsidian orb named birdbrain, who Created the universe and delivered the three sacred Commandments: “Thou Shalt Not Drop Me”, “Thou Shalt Not Lick Me”, and “Thou Shalt Not Make Me Make More Commandments.” This is my workaround for lacking a metaphysical anchor.

When I enter the stage—when I enter the school, the room, the presence of another clown—I shall keep birdbrain in my mind and my heart.

One worships birdbrain by placing shared pleasure and fun above all else.

When birdbrain is satisfied, IT grants joy, humor, and safety. (Note: “IT” is the respectful mode of address. This is not a joke. Don’t make IT make more commandments.)

And because birdbrain controls all, birdbrain will not put me in harm’s way.

birdbrain brings me joy.

birdbrain brings us joy.

Through birdbrain I shall succeed at clown school.

birdbrain shall protect me.

Say what you will. At least I’m trying something new.

—

Morning of 11 Nov 2025

First of all, it’s 11/11. That’s pretty great.

Second, I’ve been trying to protect my soul from chaos. But the soul can’t be damaged in the way I imagine, so that effort is misplaced.

Third, my verbal speed is lower these days—the speed at which I hear something and know how to respond. Something like: “ease into it…”

I don’t want to go to school. It’s tiring. It’s hard to fail again and again.

But what else is there?

Clowning has a spiritual texture. A oneness with self and audience. You’re learning to be light, gentle, airy, entirely present—but only for brief windows, unless you let it take you over.

—

What is happiness anyway? Is it momentary joy and lightness? Or is it leading the life you want?

Which would you choose:

Option B: general ease and emotional calm; less internal oscillation; less existential stress. But also less drive, more physical fragility, and more ambiguity from others about how to treat you.

Option 2: more internal ups and downs; presence requires effort; connecting is harder. But physical strength is simple. Achievement comes naturally. And people have an easier time fitting you into the social world.

Which one is happiness?

Neither is clearly better. It’s a choice between lives, not morals.

Isn’t “Who am I?” ultimately a choice?

—

When I entered the stage today, during the drumroll that signals my impending entry, I prayed to birdbrain. I kept IT in my mind. And sure enough: I wasn’t nervous.

I also wasn’t exciting or interesting. I was kicked off immediately for being too boring. The teacher later said, “I know you’re working on sensitivity, but you need to take a risk.”

So yeah. Thanks, birdbrain. Next time, could YOU also kick my butt a little? (“YOU” is the appropriate version of direct address for IT.)

—

Whenever my roommate enters the water closet, I start a timer.

There’s a sticky note on his door labeled “Long Pooper (Duration).” He earned this title after spending more time pooping than I spent doing ab exercises—5 minutes, 15 seconds.

Clowns are funny people.

Today, around 11 a.m., I set a personal record: most cries in a 24-hour period. Five total. Four sobs, one weep. This morning was the weep.

Clowns track funny things.

In class today, we learned contact dance lifts. They range from “lean on my back, I pick you up to crack your spine” to “I scoop you into a cradle, squat, and roll you backward over my head”.

We tried the one where you use a hip thrust and forward dip to bring your partner onto your back.

The teacher asked for volunteers. I DID NOT WANT to volunteer, so I raised my hand.

I tried my best. I did it slowly so no one got hurt. And I dropped my friend.

The teacher had us switch roles: base and flier.

I started to cry.

We performed the switch poorly too. The flier (that’s me!) ended up flopped kinda haphazardly, like a too-starched tablecloth leaning against a table leg.

The teacher asked if I wanted to fly for him. I said sure. Where else can you keep trying the thing, keep aiming for fun, keep doing weird acrobatic nonsense while crying in front of twenty people?

I remember people noticing I was crying. Mostly, I remember our teacher’s steadiness. Me: overwhelmed, confused, trying despite near-panic. Everyone else: watching the demonstration, taking mental notes.

I’m trying to be open and vulnerable and sensitive.

I guess that’s the point.

(And weeps are better than sobs. Progress.)

Clown School Day 26: Something is Rotten in the State of Julian

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In which Our Hero wants to run away from joining the circus

Fuck all you hoes. (Get a grip, motherfucker.)

I don’t feel connected. I don’t feel like I belong. I don’t feel… part of anyone’s anything. Is that them? Is it me? Did I watch too much TV? Is that a hint of accusation in your eyes?

Mondays after class, everyone mills around forming groups for Friday’s performance. And every Monday, I feel like I’m picked last in gym. It’s not that anyone is doing anything wrong. It’s that my internal meter flips into nobody wants you. Even though I have no idea whether that’s true or not.

In Movement class, too, I somehow end up in the group of three more often than not. (“Everyone in pairs, one group of three.) Some part of me takes this as evidence. Evidence of what? That I don’t fit. That I’m the odd one out. That I’m in the wrong place even when I want to be here more than anything.

None of this is rational.
It just feels real.

I’ve asked people a few times to grab dinner or go for a walk, and the responses have been mixed. That should be normal. It is normal. But this week, the rejections land harder than they should. My brain turns each one into a thesis on exile.

And so I keep circling the same questions:

  • Is it that I don’t like them?
  • Is it that they don’t like me?
  • Or am I simply struggling to be open?

Is this why I can’t clown? Is this the same issue: some belief that if they saw me, they wouldn’t like me → so I don’t show them myself?

Head Teacher once said that even if I don’t want to perform with others, I still have to perform for the audience—to give. I keep wondering if she can see the part of me that prefers single-player games. The part that only trusts what I can control.

So yeah—Friday requires groups of 3 or 5. I still don’t have a group. I posted in the group chat. And a small, childish part of me wants to take my ball and go home.
Fuck this.
I don’t need this.
Except… I clearly do.

—

After class, someone asked how I was.
“I’ve been better.”
She tried to give me a hug. Kind, if a little awkward. I walked away still feeling disconnected, but I guess appreciating the attempt? That’s the weird part: even gestures of care glance off me this week.

What the fuck is going on?

They say you’ll see sadness in the eyes of a clown.
Is that because clowning attracts people searching for joy? Who else dedicates themselves to fun except those who’ve had to hunt for it? It’s the old question: Who is the clown for the clown?

For me, the work is spiritual. The connection, the nakedness, the earnestness. And right now, all of that feels out of reach.

I sobbed three separate times today. Is that sensitive enough for you, Head Teacher?

The first time was after class, when groups were forming. Historically, I’ve had terrible luck picking groups—worse than random probability—so now I let randomness decide. There’s also the small practical matter: I came here to learn to work with whoever shows up.

But still: no group. Again.

I’m clearly struggling with the social part of clown school. And it stings, because this is the place people come when they feel misaligned with the “normal” world. The circus is for the outsiders. But what happens when you feel like an outsider inside the circus?

So today, when I tried being an ostrich and got one laugh before retreating into my shell, I felt that same old instinct: run, hide, disappear.

Maybe that’s part of the training. They apply pressure and see what cracks, what softens, what finally opens.

In my case, the message I keep hearing from the teachers is:
They don’t love you because you’re not showing them you.

And fuck, that’s hard. It’s hard to show yourself when you already feel unwanted.

Anyway—
I still lack a group.
So that. Really. Hurts.

P.S. Head Teacher said my clothing looked like broccoli vomit. I believe she’s suggesting I dress differently. So tomorrow, I will. Change.

Clown School Weekend 5.2: Good at Games, Bad at Play

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In which Our Hero muses on play

Do I like play?

For someone who has historically liked games—loved games, spent thousands of hours inside them—it’s a surprising question to ask.

There’s no question I like games. And play is what we do in games. So I suppose I like play?

This explanation feels insufficient.

I like lighthearted engagement in low-stakes, real-world-mimicking activities. In that sense, I like playing.

But often when others play with me, I generally don’t experience it as mutual play. And often when I try to play with others, they don’t experience it as playing together. (They sometimes experience it as me playing at them or against them, which has its own problems compared to us playing with each other.) It’s rare for me to find someone with whom play becomes mutually satisfying.

This isn’t necessarily about my love of play. It may be about my skill at play.

Eight or so years ago, a friend told me I didn’t know how to play. It was one of those moments you remember: if not for the bluntness of the comment, then for the proximity of his anger to a fist arriving at your face.

Learning to play requires paying attention to others. It’s a feedback loop: you stoke their fires, they stoke yours. And with rare exception, I’m not interested in stoking fires. The pool of people I like is small; my interest in socializing outside that pool is also small. So perhaps I simply have less experience in social play—either from lack of historical interest or poor methodology.

This, to be clear, is about social play.

Only two (three?) weeks ago did I first play a game to play rather than to win.

Historically, my engagement with games has been more optimization than play. Perhaps that’s why my win rate is high: if most people play, the one who optimizes will win. I analyze, comprehend, break down, and rebuild. These are fun for me, thus part of my play. But how many people do you know who approach a casual board-game night like this? And how many people want to rejoin someone who plays a board game night like this?

My clown teachers say I need sensitivity. I think they mean gentleness, and sensitivity is one route to gentleness. Sensitivity is letting experiences permeate you. Those who know me—family especially—would say I’m already very high in sensitivity (i.e. sensing the world around me, including the experiences of others). My teachers may mean a specific flavor: gentle sensitivity with lighthearted reactions. Not that I lack sensitivity, but that I lack lightness of spirit and gentleness of response. 

Yesterday at 4 a.m., a bird flew into my apartment window. I learned this at 11 a.m., when my roommate showed me the box he’d put it in. We called French animal rescues; none were helpful. I made a joke about how the French might simply eat this sort of injured bird. He said (paraphrasing), “Come on. This is an opportunity to be sensitive, man!”

As a classmate, he knows I’m working on this skill. What he might mean is that the joke felt heartless. Some people don’t like dark humor; some don’t like cultural humor. Perhaps what they really mean is: give what your audience wants.

I used this skill when running sales at my previous company: give them what they want; say less—always less—as less is more.

And perhaps my teachers are saying that almost no one wants me without gentleness.

In competitive games, my strategy is often to use my strength against the opponent’s weakness. It’s a good way to win. But it only attracts people who love competition.

So if I want cooperative relationships,
I’ll have to learn to play.

(Closing the loop on that earlier story: I have never been punched in the face. I’ve only been punched once, by someone experiencing a very different reality. I have, however, been threatened with face-punching roughly five times. I’d like to keep that streak—and ideally reduce the threats.)

—

Today I watched a clown show. Afterward, I left the theater to go home. And upon stepping outside, I realized that part of sensitivity is patience. So I went back, stood outside, and let myself be sensitive. Two people I enjoy talking with emerged, and we walked to the train together. It was lovely.

+1 for sensitivity and patience.

Clown School Weekend 5.1: Toddler Logic

JulianLeave a comment

In which Our Hero discovers a new kind of intelligence.

Yesterday I saw a clown show. The second-year students performed scenes they had been rehearsing, and one moment in particular brought the house down.

Two clowns were locked in a strange duel of one-upmanship using nothing but bananas. The first clown sat down for dinner. The second pulled out a banana. The first summoned a waiter to bring him two bananas on a silver platter. The second peeled his banana with quiet superiority. The first snapped his fingers again and had the waiter grind fresh pepper over his bananas like they were a Michelin dessert.

And then came the pièce de résistance.

The second clown peeled a banana, attached a vacuum hose, and sucked the fruit straight into the machine. He then opened the vacuum’s little plastic compartment—the one where attachments live—and inside was a perfect, ready-to-eat banana. The crowd exploded. It was ridiculous. It was ingenious.

And I sat there thinking:

How can something be this dumb and this smart at the same time?

A friend of mine likes to say, “Clowning logic is toddler logic.”

I’ve mused on this for weeks. Yesterday, it finally clicked. It’s a theory. A remarkably precise one.

It explains why the banana gag was both silly and clever. It wasn’t adult intelligence at work. It was toddler intelligence.

1. Logic That Doesn’t Work (But Feels True)

In clown logic—just like toddler logic—objects don’t always behave according to physics or reason. But they do always have a logic.

A banana is shaped like a gun → so it can be a gun.

A banana is shaped like a phone → so it can ring.

An unpeeled banana enters a vacuum hose → the vacuum outputs peeled bananas.

The logic doesn’t hold, and yet it feels inevitable.

The clown isn’t being stupid. He’s using a different rule set.

2. Infinite Positivity and Grit

Toddlers fail to do the same task twenty times with unwavering optimism. They pick the block up wrong, drop it, pick it up again, grin, try again. They don’t even know someone might be embarrassed or self-conscious.

Clowns do this too. Failure is not a setback; it’s an ingredient. The clown delights in trying again and again. It’s part of the charm. The audience roots for them because they never sour, never collapse, never scold themselves.

A clown can fail joyfully, a kind of emotional intelligence most adults have misplaced. (Is this why we love to watch someone embrace the flop? Perhaps it’s just failing joyfully.)

3. Lack of Control; all is Fate and Luck

A clown sits at home. Someone rings his doorbell. The clown opens the door. He gets pied in the face. The door closes. The clown returns to his chair.

Three seconds later: ding-dong!

The clown opens the doorbell again, just as excited as before.

Clowns operate in this same looping causality. No matter their behavior, they’re going to get pied in the face.

A friend’s baby hates bath time. He will wail and scream, sometimes strategize and connive. But whatever happens, he always ends up in the bath.

4. Repetition With Heightening

Toddlers adore repetition. Say “boo” ten times, and the tenth might get the biggest laugh. Their neurons seem to knit new connections in real time.

Clowns use this too. A repeated joke—with slight heightening each time—lets the audience see the clown’s mind working. Each repetition says: “Look, I’ve learned something!” At some point it might stop being funny. Why knows why? But bring it back up later in an unexpected way? Hilarious.

The game grows because the player grows.

5. Invented Rules That Aren’t True

Toddlers create miniature physics for their world:

“Only mommy can open drawers” (perhaps because mommy said this one time)

“If I hop, you must clap.”

“Dogs are male, and cats are female.”

Clowns do the same. Everything cone-shaped is an ice cream cone. A microphone, a traffic cone, a wizard’s wand: all delicious. Entire scenes arise from treating objects according to invented, toddler-esque rules.

These rules create friction, miscommunication, and comedy because the audience watches the clown operate inside a world only the clown understands.

The Banana Returns

So why did the vacuumed banana land so hard?

Because the clown applied toddler logic with adult-level precision.

He located an absurd rule—”in the vacuum” means “in the vacuum”—and committed to it fully. The magic wasn’t the trick; it was the conviction. The childlike law was obeyed so faithfully that the result felt surprisingly “smart.”

And then, later, the same clown tried to feed cake ingredients into the vacuum and produce a cake from offstage.

This time, the audience didn’t bite.

Why?

Two reasons:

  1. We’re doing bananas, not cakes.

    The world of the scene had already established a rule: we’re playing with bananas. Switching to cake is like arriving to the toddler’s wizarding world as a sci-fi character. You tried, but it’s the wrong game.
  2. The cake came from offstage, not from the vacuum.

    The previous joke worked because in the vacuum means in the vacuum. Pulling a cake from offstage wasn’t “the logic continuing”—it was creating new logic that doesn’t even make sense. (If they had put bananas and a strawberry into a blender, then pulled out a strawberry-banana yogurt from that same blender, that would have worked.)

The banana moment worked because it honored the rules.

The cake moment didn’t because it ignored them.

The Closing Thought

Maybe clowning can appear stupid because adults forget how to use toddler intelligence.

Toddlers aren’t dumb. They’re just operating a different operating system—one built on delight, mischief, repetition, and possibility. And one where the rules of the world aren’t yet solidified.

A clown steps onstage and reactivates that OS.

And for a few minutes, the audience gets a fresh start too.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, my banana is ringing.