review – Julian Wise

In which Our Hero builds upon himself.

I created a new game today.

We started with the game I described two days ago.

We played with three people. It wasn’t as good as with 4 or 5 people. Then we expanded so we each received two hands instead of one hand, for a total of 6 two-card hands.

Then we gave ourselves 3 cards per hand instead of two.

Then we gave ourselves 6 cards instead of two sets of three, which we subdivided into our own three-card hands.

What did I learn?

Follow the fun. When it’s not fun, find new fun.
Don’t push. If it’s fun enough, stick with it.
I like chaos. Compared to my card game compatriots, I enjoyed the more intricate game. (Part of that may be my familiarity with poker — i.e. this end version was farther at the end of my comfort zone while the basic game had become trivial).

We spent 5 hours today playing that game. Playing variations. Ending at the more intricate one.

Also this:

To get to the end we had to go though the steps. Sometimes you have to take people through the basics, not start at the end if the end is too complicated.

Building blocks. Leveling up.

And one more thought:

In the last hand, I correctly called all three cards in two of my compatriots’ hands. One of my friends half-jokingly called me “the oracle”.

Perhaps what other people find chaotic is just the space I exist in. Sometimes what’s trivial to you is complex to me. (My partner laughs when I refer to putting frozen food on a plate and microwaving it as “cooking”.)

This reminds me of one of the lessons from clown school: everyone has their own challenges. What’s trivial for me may be hard for you. Jesus would say “judge not lest ye be judged”. (And after all, today is the day for celebrating his birthday.)

I’m glad to have seen my classmates trudge through their own challenges. And I’m glad to have built up the self-comfort prior not to judge them during the process. That would be a real dick move.

🤡

In which Our Hero misquotes Shakespeare.

“This above all: to thine own game be true.” —Hamlet, Act 1 Scene 3.

It’s very easy to forget the game.

But the game is the most important thing.

Some performance is only game. Tennis, for instance, is only game: and look how much money that earns.

The Rehearsal

My scene partner and I rehearsed today. We lacked pleasure because we had forgotten the game.

The original game was simple: I make my partner lick a thing. Like when children find a bug and dare each other to eat it.

It wasn’t fun anymore. We knew it was coming. We knew he would do it. There was no tension, no conflict.

So we changed it.

Now, we begin with a eulogy for a piece of the space: “We are gathered here today to say goodbye to the power outlet.”

Then we play rock-paper-scissors.

The loser, as a ritual of farewell, must lick it.

As the scene escalates, so do the lickables. The floor. The bottom of a shoe. The teacher.

We didn’t have a game. Now we have a game.

The game? Rock-paper-scissors.

But with stakes!

The Farce

In Improv class, I realized the rule applies to everything.

We played a farce: a train compartment. One person enters, perfectly normal except for one grotesque tic. They repeat it. Then a second person enters, takes pleasure from that game, and — after a long time enjoying their tic (longer than you think) — adds their own tic, heightening the first. Then a third person. Then a fourth.

The game is simple: take the game from the person before you, heighten it through your play, and pass it on.

Simple is nice.

Simple is hard.

You have to feel the scene. Is it falling down? Are you talking over the game with “train compartment” nonsense? Are you heightening or dominating or smothering?

When everyone played the game, the farce appeared by itself.

When someone forgot, everything froze.

The game makes the show. Always has. Always will.

The Handstand

This morning, I flipped upside-down.

My first handstand (wall-assisted), then onto a peer’s back, who rolled me forward, turning us both into a ball.

A new game: gravity as partner.

I’d forgotten the joy of inversion.

The Father

My father arrived in Étampes today. He wants more than anything to see a class.

I’d love to have him: to share my play space. The school forbids it.

No visitors, no cameras, no phones. We even sign a “no recording” oath, like monks taking vows.

Why so strict?

Because clowning is vulnerable.

I’ve seen people bare grief. I’ve seen them make absolute fools of themselves (and not the good kind).

Once, a student scraped his false teeth along the floor before popping them back in. The room gasped. Disgust and horror.

Once, I yelled at the teacher. Their instruction felt like trash; maybe provoking me was the point.

This isn’t for YouTube. This is for us.

The school protects its game.

It keeps the outside world out, so the play inside can live.

The Lesson

The game is everything: the lick, the tic, the flip, the secret room.

When you forget the game, everything dies.

When you play it, life appears.

Protect the space so you can play the game.

Then find the game.

Release all else.

Play the game.

And when you lose it, start again.

That’s what makes it a play.

Tag: review

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