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. 👍
Julian Wise 