Tag: Travel

Clown School Break Day 21: The Egg Game

JulianLeave a comment

In which Our Hero encounters an eggregious machine.

Walking through the casino today, I saw a brilliant game.
A perfectly engineered one.
A real bad egg.

It’s a slot machine called something like The Egg.

You put in your money. You slap the button.
Standard procedure.
Nothing shell-shocking.

But instead of reels to spin, there’s just an egg on the screen.

Every time you slap, the egg cracks a little more.

And when the egg is fully broken –
crack –
you win a jackpot.

The jackpots (at the $1 play level) range from about $3 to just over $10,000.
All of them are progressive.
They grow the longer you play. 

The egg takes a variable number of slaps to break.

It’s a well-made game.
Eggsactly balanced.

Here’s why.

1. It redefines winning.
You will win.
The only question is when.
Just keep putting money in until the egg hatches.

Winning doesn’t feel like if.
Winning feels like eventually.

2. You feel progress.
Every slap cracks the egg a little more.
You’re getting closer.
A chip here, a fracture there.

Are you actually closer?
Who knows.
But it looks like you are, and that’s all your nervous system needs.

3. Everything is a jackpot.
I watched a man spend $70 chasing one $10 jackpot and two $3 jackpots.

He won three times.
He lost $54.

But emotionally, during the process?
Sunny side up.

After he left?
Fried. 

4. It’s intelligible.
Most modern slot machines are incomprehensible.
You don’t even know what the rules for winning are until you’ve played for a while.

That confusion creates a false sense of mastery:
“I’m learning the game.”

You are—but learning doesn’t help.

The Egg is different.
Egg → crack → jackpot.
No shell game.
No mystery meat.

Immediate understanding.
Immediate hook.
Egg-ceptionally approachable.

A game egg-zactly positioned to attract newbies. 

5. It creates tension – and guarantees release.
The egg will break.
That’s the promise.

When that suspense releases, however,
the yolk (“joke”) will already have been on you. 

6. Your action feels causal.
Slap the button.
The egg jiggles.
A crack instantly appears.

Your body doesn’t care about RNGs or payout tables.
Your body says: I did that.

7. You can mash.
On a normal slot machine there’s a pause between spins.
The Egg?
You can mash the button 30 times in 30 seconds.
(I saw a guy mash 70 times in under 3 minutes.) 

So if you spend $40 and win $20, you feel frustrated.
And to relieve that frustration:
Have you considered mashing the button?

The feedback loop is tight.
The illusion of control is strong.
The design is…
let’s be honest…
eggstraordinary.

That’s it.

I’ve cracked it.

And now I’m walking away, before I get completely scrambled. 🥚

(Author’s note: I did not actually play the game. I am not a fan of slot machines. I did, however, admire it from afar. Here’s a video of someone playing it.) 

Clown School Break Day 20: The Dealer Doesn’t Care

JulianLeave a comment

In which Our Hero recalls, yet again, that feelings are weather, not climate.

Poker.

I don’t like poker.
It fucking sucks.

The intensity, the swings, the way it presses you between two stones: your own decisions and the randomness of the universe. As one poker TV show once put it, “It’s a hard way to make an easy living.”

There was a time I stopped playing altogether because I believed poker was net-negative for the world. You take money from people who can’t afford it. Addicts. The lonely. The poor.

And what do you give in return?

Entertainment?
A distraction?
A slow-motion morality play about risk and consequence?

These were my thoughts after losing two big pots tonight.
One I played fine. Just ran into the top of someone’s range.
The other I played poorly preflop in a $50 splash pot and donated my stack like a confused philanthropist. (“Splash pot” = the casino added $50 to it for free.)

Woof.

So I asked myself, as one does after being spiritually hit by a train:

Why do I do this?
Why are we attracted to what we’re attracted to?
Is it genetics? Happenstance? Praise when we were eight and wanted to feel special?

Clown school has taught me one brutal, luminous thing:
You will be pummeled on your chosen path.
Mocked, rejected, flattened, ignored.
And that’s just by the teachers! 

Your path should therefore be the thing you continue doing despite the punishment.
What’s the thing you’ll walk through hell for?

I’m deeply dissatisfied with poker tonight. But here’s the truth:
Poker is a game of millions of hands.
Variance is a dragon that only bows after thousands upon thousands of repetitions.
This hand doesn’t matter.
This session doesn’t matter.

Clowning, on the other hand, is both slower and faster.
Yes, the craft takes years, maybe a lifetime – but the feedback is instantaneous.
You step out, you try something, and either the audience lights up now, or it doesn’t.

Steve Martin once asked himself:
“What happens if I never release the tension?”
Instead of setup → punchline → laugh from tension relief, he just stacked more and more absurdity.
If someone left the show emotionless and burst out laughing in the car ride home, he considered that a victory.
(His memoir is worth a read.) 

Here’s the thing about Cards.
And the thing about Clowning.

The C’s don’t care about your feelings.
The dealer doesn’t pause because you’re tilted.
The audience doesn’t laugh because you’re sad.

The next hand came.
My body was buzzing with frustration.
But I played fine.
And that was what mattered.

Ugh.

—

It’s now an hour later.
The frustration is gone.

How astonishing, how liberating, how funny it is to remember how fleeting feelings are.

And how little they matter to the game.
Any game.
When the next hand is already being dealt.

Unless you let them play instead of you.
And they are both bad cardplayers and bad clowns. 

—

We’re now an hour after that.
I quit the live game because it wasn’t profitable enough.
I wasn’t having fun.
I asked myself the question “If I lost my stack in the next hand, would I rebuy and keep plying?”
The answer was no. 

So now I’m at the deli, eating dinner with my father…
While we play online poker with a different group. 

🤡

Clown School Break Day 18: More than Flavor

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In Which Our Hero Eats Theater for Dinner

“What do you plan to do after clown school?”

  1. Gonzo theater in NYC
  2. Play with children
  3. Live a damn good life

That’s about it.

Other topics?

—

This weekend I attended, for the first time in my life, a Michelin-star restaurant.
A two-star place that, until this year, carried three.

What struck me wasn’t the prestige.
It was the theatricality.

The whimsy. The humor.

They turned a hot dog into a 1 × 1 × 0.5 cm gelatin cube that tasted exactly like a hot dog.
They turned a PB&J into a deconstructed PB&J, complete with hand-peeled grapes.
They opened the meal with torches and epic music.
They ended it by painting dessert onto the tabletop.

My main experience throughout wasn’t taste — it was laughter.

Yes, the flavors were excellent.
Yes, the chemistry and artistry were impressive.

But come on: a tiny gelatin hot dog? A micro-PB&J?
These are jokes. Delicious jokes. High-budget pranks.

For $3 I can go to The Wiener’s Circle and get an actual hot dog.
Here, for $30, I got a hot-dog-flavored Lego brick.

And weirdly: I loved it.

Not because of the taste (though the tastes were good) but because of the experience:
the camaraderie, the conversation, the atmosphere, the emotions.

These were absolutely, unquestionably worth it.

And they had nothing to do with flavor.

The one dish that didn’t land — a caviar-and-chocolatey-coffee concoction — failed for a simple reason:
I didn’t know how to feel about it.

It tasted fine. Interesting. Curious.
But I couldn’t tell whether the intended emotion was awe, nostalgia, whimsy, melancholy, or… “???”

That’s why it faltered.

A performer needs to tell the audience how to feel.
Is this a comedy or a tragedy?
Where are we going?
What’s the poster of this show?

My mother didn’t like Uncut Gems because HOLY SHIT THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU EXPECT WHEN YOU PUT ON AN ADAM SANDLER MOVIE.

It wasn’t the film’s fault.
It was the emotional contract she thought she’d signed.

I like immersive performance art.
I like blurring reality and theater.
I want to perform in vivo, turning ordinary spaces into meta-experiences.

But the key to all of that is simple:
Make people feel the way you want them to feel.

It helps when they know what you’re going for.
Or when the emotional direction is obvious.
But those aren’t required.

At clown school, they never tell us what the outcome should be.
They poke, prod, nudge; but they don’t name the destination.

That’s the challenge.
And the gift.

If they knew where we were supposed to end up, maybe they’d tell us.

But they don’t.

So we must each find our own path.

🤡

Clown School Break Day 15: The Lightness Advantage

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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 Break Day 12: Poker vs Clown

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In which Our Hero manages his emotions (and plays poker because, with a broken foot, what else are you going to do?)

If clowning is about managing your emotions in service of giving pleasure, then poker might actually train part of that muscle. The emotional management is enormous.

Earlier today I lost three spots in a row.
One I misplayed slightly.
Two were just unlucky.

I assumed my strategy wasn’t working.

But it was.

I do this in clowning, too: I try a thing, it doesn’t land, and I immediately abandon it. But that’s rarely the answer. Sometimes you need to push the thing farther. Sometimes you pivot to a different game. But the one thing you don’t need to do is collapse inward and quit. You don’t just give up and take your ball and go home.

Instead, check your fundamentals.

In poker: Is this still a good game? Am I playing well?
In clowning: Have I found the game? Am I playing it?

Yet the two arts couldn’t be more opposite.

Poker is about hiding.
Showing nothing.
No emotion, no tells, no generosity.

Clowning is the opposite: openness, earnestness, authenticity, giving.

Poker is selfishness.
Clowning is generosity.

At one point today I was down $650. I kept playing because I was playing well—and because, in theory, I’d been winning the whole time.

That’s another key difference: poker has theory.
Clowning has only practice.

Poker’s truth reveals itself over hundreds of thousands of hands.
Clowning’s truth reveals itself instantly.

If everyone’s laughing at you at the poker table, you’re the fish.
If everyone’s laughing with you on stage, you’re the clown.

—

I was also especially open with my family today. That was nice 🙂
Time and place, boys. Time and place 😎

Clown School Break Day 8: Selfishness

JulianLeave a comment

In which Our Hero… is selfish?

A friend says my attending clown school is selfish.

A second friend concurs.

The second friend, at least, says it without judgment. They think it’s a selfish act, but not necessarily a bad one. (I didn’t ask the first whether “selfish” = “bad,” so I can’t report on their view.)

The second friend is a professional poker player. I asked if studying poker is selfish. They said no. I asked why. They gave reasons like: “it keeps my mind sharp,” “it teaches me skills I use in other areas.” I pointed out that clowning does the same. Just swap “understanding randomness and variance” for “learning to connect with others and bring them pleasure.”

I’m surprised people find clown school selfish. I don’t find it more selfish than acting school, sales training, or learning accounting. Maybe slightly more selfish than learning to be a plumber. Definitely less selfish than being a momentum trader or a poker player.

I get that performers are self-involved. Sometimes self-obsessed. But selfish?

The job of a clown is to bring people pleasure. Joy. Happiness. Are the best in the profession—Jim Carrey, Sacha Baron Cohen, Robin Williams—selfish? That seems unfair.

So what do people actually mean when they say “clown school is selfish”?

They might mean something like:

  1. “Clowning doesn’t contribute much to other people.”
  2. “Julian will get more personal joy out of clown school than he’ll generate for others.”
  3. “Clown school isn’t contributory (either because clowning isn’t, or because clown school won’t lead to clowning).”
  4. “Clown school interferes with more contributory things you could be doing.”

Here’s how these land:

1. “Clowning doesn’t contribute much.”

I’m dismissing this outright as a misunderstanding of what this school teaches. This school teaches how to find pleasure in order to share it. You can believe pleasure is unimportant, but if you believe it matters, clowning is clearly contributory.

2. “You’ll get more out of this than others will.”

This becomes a comment about skill.
If I will always be a bad clown, then yes: clown school would be more self-pleasure than other-pleasure. But that assumes failure as destiny. I’m earnestly trying to learn these skills. I want to be good at play, connection, and generosity. Multiple people—people with no incentive to flatter me—have said clowning seems like a particularly great fit for me. I think so too.

3. “Clown school won’t lead to clowning.”

This is the critique I take most seriously.

My goal isn’t to become a professional clown per se: it’s to become a better performer, a better player, a better connector. I want to learn charisma. I want to learn to bring joy not just onstage but in everyday life. I want to learn to play for the sake of fun rather than optimization. I want to play well with my nephew. I want to play well with future kids of my own.

If I’m truly seeking personal enrichment more than professional clowning, then yes, one could call that “selfish.” But personal enrichment that increases one’s capacity to love, play, and be present seems… not exactly a moral failing.

4. “Is clown school the best use of your time?”

Honestly? I don’t know. A year is long. (Well, seven months of actual school.) But I’m not locked in. Students drop in and out. There’s one course in March I’m particularly excited about. For the rest, I’m open: if more-contributory opportunities appear, I’ll take them. If someone offered me a full-time job tomorrow, I’d consider it. (And, notably, I applied to one recently.)

At the moment, my time is quite unoccupied. I’m writing for one company, and that leaves plenty of space. So: clown school.

I want a family someday. I want kids. Cultivating lightness and play feels deeply aligned with the values I want to bring into a home. And I’m at a turning point: many friends are settling down. If not now, then when would I ever have the time to go to clown school? When else would learning to stay light during stress be so valuable?

I was bumming around the U.S. in a van.
I was working half-time, sometimes quarter-time, vaguely searching for more.
Given that reality, filling the time with something joyful and growth-oriented seems… pretty reasonable.

But if someone wants to hire me for something more productive, I’m here for it!

(Finally: when pressed, the poker friend admitted he couldn’t clearly articulate what he meant by “selfish.” He guessed it was closest to number 3, but also said his inability to articulate the position probably means it’s weakly held. That’s reassuring. I thought this assessment was more associational than well-considered. Still, it’s good to check.)

[P.s. I’ll share this write-up with the first friend, too. They might have a whole different analysis of how the selfishness works, in which case I’ll jot up a part 2 🤓]

Clown School Break Day 6: What Does the _____ Say?

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In which our hero echoes (echoes, echoes, echoes).

Apparently I’m good at vocal impressions.

That’s cool.

That’s fun.

I’ve been doing them for years.

The first one I ever mastered was my cousin Lawrence, who speaks like a college-professor walrus with an abiding love of donuts. A classic.

Then, at some point, people told me that doing other people’s voices was rude.

And then recently, a travel buddy pointed out that I unconsciously slip into people’s accents when I talk to them. It’s not intentional—I just mirror their sound.

It’s nice to realize I have an actual skill.

And that my joy leaks through in the process.

Fittingly, the first thing I did well in clown school was an impression: I imitated the sound of someone singing in Japanese. The room laughed. The teacher approved. It worked.

America is too uptight about accents.

Doing impressions isn’t inherently offensive.

Relax.

—

Completely unrelated: I feel noticeably worse when I eat carbs—less emotionally present, more buzzy and numb.

I think diet will have an impact on my clowning.

Says a friend: “Maybe the challenge is to feel present and emotionally in tune regardless of what you’ve eaten or how you’ve slept or whatever”

And that’s fair.

But also, isn’t one generally better at life when one is living aligned with what one wants?

Clown School Break Day 4: Return of the G

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In which Our Hero gets his groove back. 

Friend: “We’re looking for ladyfingers”
Grocery store employee: “What are those?”
Me: “They’re like chicken fingers but made out of women.”
Employee: “I can’t stand men, but that’s a good one.”

A friend told me I’m funnier now than before clown school—that I tell jokes for other people more than I used to.

That’s nice.

I do feel myself joining other people’s worlds more readily. It feels more comfortable, somehow safer. Like I’m less afraid of being hurt by them. Like I’ve internalized the fact that the pain of rejection is both temporary and unreal. 

And I am still unquestionably afraid. But the fear is now useful. It’s a companion. A friend. I just need to embrace it, befriend it, and place it properly so it doesn’t own me.

At dinner, my dad asked me to do an impression I’ve done before: one of the teachers from my Le Jeu course this summer. I did it, and it was fun. The fact that sharing pleasure is more important than the impression’s accuracy put me at ease. Historically, I’ve refused in spots like this. Maybe because doing someone else’s game felt uncomfortable. But why? Who cares? Might as well give pleasure. Spread joy. 

I was more open and comfortable and relaxed in general.

And noticing the spots when I wasn’t. And releasing them. 

These are nice.

Thanks, clown school. 

Clown School Day 34: Frustration Sans Fun

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In which Our Hero wonders what specific problem is afoot.

My roommate asked if I’m on the spectrum.

He teaches improv to autistic kids professionally, so the question wasn’t random. He even offered some lightly camouflaged feedback he gives his students:

  • They find the game and play it very hard, but ignore the pleasure of the people around them.
  • They approach situations with a kind of childlike openness, but the moment someone comments on them, they build a thick, impenetrable shield.

I asked him if he is on the spectrum.
He said no.

I’m grateful for his attempt to help. I’m also aware his description fits me in class. What I’m still missing are the “what” and “how” of changing it.

–

I’ve only worked in one real office. I was 19, a sophomore in college, with a summer job at a NYC marketing agency. They paid me $16/hr to make the same repeated mouse clicks, transferring digital assets from one system to another. I downloaded a mouse-recording tool and automated my job. Then automated the interns’ jobs. Then automated my direct superior’s job.

And nobody liked me.

I was there to work. To do the task. To be effective. Clock in, clock out, $16/hr. Promotion was not on the menu. Mostly, they just wanted me swept quietly under the rug.

The connection between that summer and here isn’t skill: I’m far worse at clowning than I was at automating workflows. The connection is the feeling in the room. The details are different, but the emotional texture is uncannily similar. There, as here, I tried to make friends. There, as here, people were cordial but uninterested.

To me, clown school feels like a coworking space. Others have formed friendships; I’m batting maybe 2-for-10 on hangout invitations, with no successful follow-ups/second hangs from the two. Eventually you give up, videochat friends from home, and read a book.

It makes it harder that I’m not enjoying the classes.
Nor am I learning well.
It’s just terrifically challenging.

Maybe that’s intentional: the hardest class comes after the fundamentals.
Or maybe I’m unraveling.
I keep wondering whether the problems I had back in April/May were different ones. I was in a completely different psycho-emotional state then.

–

After class today, a teacher asked what I planned to do with my broken foot.

I told them I’m of two minds:

  1. Take it as a sign from the gods and get the fuck out of here, returning in January.
  2. Stay and see whether this new, legless constraint allows for new growth.

–

Last night a friend told me I only ever talk about myself.
Sure.
My pleasure is in the game. And it is vast. But it doesn’t seem to be in the sharing. More autistic people become computer programmers than clowns. Perhaps I’m less naturally equipped. Maybe my version of sharing the game is the multiple clowns who I helped with visa applications. Maybe it’s in the creation of a clown house so people aren’t stuck with individual roomshares. Maybe it’s cleverness or intellect. Those play poorly on this stage.

High achievers share one trait: grit.
Do I want to grit through this?
Do I even want to be a clown?

At the beginning, my clown school goals were 80% spiritual and 20% tangible. The tangible ones were:

  • Learn the practice.
  • Learn the theory.
  • Make friends.

Right now:

  • I’m injured.
  • People keep telling me they don’t connect with me (and act like it).
  • Peers are also sharing their suffering.

–

One performer friend says the physical restriction might actually help my clowning. Another says being forced to “not try so hard” might help me be better at clowning and enjoy myself more.

Personally, I’m unconvinced the foot bone is connected to the trying bone. Or that either one attaches to the funny bone.

Meanwhile I spent six hours crying on Tuesday.
Cried three more times today.
And feel like I’m banging my head against a wall.
(This feels like a particularly intense few weeks, not my new permanent state.)

With my foot injury, I even lost morning movement class, which I liked more than afternoon improv.

Ugh.

Today in class I performed one of the “substances”: Chloric Acid. I struggled because I didn’t know what specific acid she meant. She said it was something used to unclog drains, so I did drano. She said my rhythm was too slow. My later googling suggests chloric acid can have a fast, popping rhythm—but it is definitely not a drain cleaner. Maybe she meant hydrochloric acid? If this is my problem at clown school, maybe I’m better suited to be a chemist. (Tomorrow, I hope they ask me to play Barium Disodium.)

When it came time for “cream,” I sat out.
Then I lied down on the floor so I could elevate my fractured foot above my heart. Which my roommate later said indicated to him I was autistic.

What’s next?

Ugh.
Time for more searching.
The searching is the practice, I guess.

😮‍💨

​​Clown School Day 33: Milk, Movement, and Metatarsals

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In which Our Hero boils over, breaks down, and opens up.

I was milk.

Not your boring half-full breakfast glass:

I was milk on the stove that someone had forgotten about.

Warming gently, then rapidly, then dramatically.

I boiled, I foamed, I rose.

A glorious dairy geyser.

I was beautiful, exciting, energetic, light.

They loved me.

I was milking it for all it was worth.

And then I landed. Hard.

On the outside of my right foot.

The outermost digit rolled under the meat of the foot.

My milk, so recently ascendant, suddenly boiled over and ran down the sides of the pot.

Call it a turning point.

Or a turning-sour point.

Someone asked if I was hurt. I said no.

Classic milquetoast behavior.

They told me they loved my milk.

I felt genuinely glad: I’d worked hard yesterday—six hours improving myself, skimming off the emotional scum, clarifying my internal butter.

And today, between movement and improv, I stayed in the classroom to feel my feelings.

To laugh, to cry, to laugh-cry.

Just to be with myself.

A short personal pilgrimage to the Land of Milk and Honey.

No wonder my performance rose, like cream to the top.

Now I’m at the hospital.

I don’t think it’s broken.

I assume they’ll give me an X-ray, recommend some painkillers, and send me home.

A quick skim.

The triage nurse, Leo, asks if I’m a clown student.

The international ones usually are, he says.

Last year he had:

– a ruptured Australian Achilles (hi, A!)

– an American with a back problem, delivered via ambulance (hi, M!).

This year, he gets me: whole milk, 2% structurally compromised.

Leo asks where I’m from.

“California.”

He says “Alcatraz.”

I say I’ve never been.

He says it’s scary.

(It curdles his insides.)

Now I sit in the waiting room, surprisingly not souring.

Throughout this whole experience, I’ve actually felt my feelings pretty well—

and feeling them has made them less bad.

So much has to work in concert to enable walking, let alone clowning.

Bones, muscles, tendons:

a whole orchestra playing in tune.

Until suddenly the music sours
And my fifth metatarsal decides it has a bone to pick with me. (Alternate joke: “has beef with me”.)

The teacher who drove me here says I’m the first of the year.

The first!

The early bird. The early calf.

The first one to fall before the cows come home.

—

Diagnosis:

A fracture non-déplacée—a nondisplaced fracture of the 5th metatarsal.

Pain meds.

No weight on it.

Three weeks to heal.

A season put out to pasture.

Oddly, I’m calm.

It’s almost a relief to have a socially acceptable excuse for being bad at clowning.

(“Sorry, I should have been cream of the crop, but I was overwhipped/overbeaten and now I’ve split. Maybe I need to find butter things to do.”)

And despite the pain, I stayed with it—

full-fat presence.

—

I bought crutches, pain meds, and a boot from the pharmacy.

The pharmacist noted the challenge of carrying crutches while also needing crutches.

She asked where I live.

“Just across the street.”

She walked with me.

A small, wholesome kindness:

like a neighbor bringing over cookies and saying,

“Here, I brought you some warm milk for your soul.”

She knows my upstairs neighbor.

They have coffee together every day.

We bonded over our love for her cat, chausettes (“socks’ in french).

—

A surprising emotion: relief.

I told a friend about the injury and she asked how much of it might be emotional—

how sometimes a bone breaks when something else is begging to break.

She said when she broke a bone, it partly came from a life she didn’t love.

I get that.

My milk was already foaming over.

I wasn’t enjoying clown school.

I wasn’t doing it right.

I wasn’t satisfied personally either.

Then—splat.

Here comes God to shake it up.

And by God, I mean my own discoordination.

(Or the universe saying, “Time to churn.”)
As a friend sometimes describes about me: “Julian plans, and Julian laughs”.

So now I have a fracture.

And honestly… I don’t mind.

Sometimes the carton needs a dent.

—

My teacher offered to let me watch the rest of the course now and then take the actual course next year.

I’ll take them up on it.

The cows will come home eventually.

Perhaps it’s better that I watch this course.

I might have been trying too hard, mooving with too much vigor.

And at least—

miraculously—

I didn’t cry over spilled milk.