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.)
Julian Wise 