In which Our Hero demonstrates the void is optional.
Today I managed to manufacture—or maybe discover—some pleasure.
After a generally empty day (and I hate empty days), I was riding in the car feeling mildly dissatisfied when it hit me: I could change this. And the moment I realized that, I actually did. Suddenly I wasn’t dissatisfied anymore. I wasn’t stuck in that void of nothingness. I felt…pleasure. And that was nice.
Clown school is teaching some real skills! 😀
I was driving with a friend who kept trying to play with me. I rejected the first three or so times. Playing with other people is still hard, especially when I’m dissatisfied. It’s so much easier to play alone.
Which is unfortunate, considering I can’t play games alone until at least January 7th.
(I made a self-binding bet before I broke my foot. And now…well, here we are.)
So therefore:
Time for me to find new occupations for my ample free time whilst my foot heals.
(Or should I say “heels”?)
It’s nice that bored dissatisfaction isn’t mandatory, even if you’re bored.
It’s nice the game is still in me.
Perhaps some day I will learn to share it with others.
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?
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.
I was asked to leave clown school. While true, that’s… misleading.
The teachers said, “Given your foot injury and inability to walk, we recommend you get a refund and do the course later. But it’s your choice.” Then I chose to step away.
Still: it’s funny to have been asked to leave clown school.
What’s also funny is how much easier it is to connect with people now than it was 48 hours ago.
Rizz has returned. The joy is back.
Being playful with your average person—my former orthodontist, the woman at the deli counter—is somehow much easier than being playful on that stage. Why?
Because it’s an American cultural context I actually understand?
Because the stakes are lower? (No audience, no judges, no clowns.)
Because the people I meet day-to-day have normal expectations instead of self-selected charisma-sniper standards?
Because in the real world I’m not comparing myself to self-obsessed entertainment-optimizers?
Either way, I have more rizz. And I enjoy it more. #RizzOut
Orthopedics, Act II
Second orthopedist today. Foot is still fractured. Maybe I could clown. But not with vigor.
No running or jumping for at least six weeks.
Still, relief.
The X-ray technician asked how I hurt it. I said “clown school.” I said Borat went there. He likes Borat. He therefore understood what I mean by “clown”.
The nurse practitioner confirmed: full fracture. No impact activities for weeks. Healing should happen. I can return to clowning soon-ish.
Until then, I seek rest and rejuvenation. And a healed metatarsal.
However much grow-y that school was… it wasn’t comfortable.
Somehow, a broken foot feels like less pain.
Performers and Introverts
How many clowns are introverts? How many performers? People who love to be loved, but aren’t naturally social otherwise.
Eddie Murphy comes to mind. I watched his new Netflix documentary yesterday. He’s a performer; an analyzer of entertainment; but not exactly a social butterfly. Offstage, subdued. Self-contained. Kate McKinnon as well.
It’s surprising how many wildly successful performers are like that. As if they (we?) get the social nutrition required for survival from adulation, not connection. And then tend to ourselves in private.
An interesting observation. What would I do with it? Embrace my inner introvert? On stage, perform? Off-stage, do bits as protection to avoid the normal boringness of average interaction?
All three teachers agree: I should not attend the second half of this course.
That’s nice.
I wasn’t enjoying Neutral Mask. I wasn’t looking forward to Greek Tragedy. Friends have commented worries about my emotional health and about whether the school’s pedagogy implements brainwashing tactics. Perhaps it will be nice to have time off.
One of the main teachers says I analyze too much. Instead of analyzing, they say, I should “sit in the feedback.”
I’m not so sure.
When I sit in feedback, I misread it. When they told me my costume looked like “vomited broccoli,” I thought they were literally insulting the outfit. A friend later suggested it was meant to get under my skin — a non-literal pedagogical tactic.
But how am I supposed to incorporate something non-literal without analyzing it?
If literal doesn’t mean literal, then…?
And anyway, who wants to sit in vomit?
—
The head teacher asked me a question today. I wasn’t performing on account of my fractured foot, so another student took my slot. She looked at me and asked:
“Was your replacement excellent, or could you have done better?”
I said, “I don’t want to answer.”
The class booed.
I felt confused.
I asked her to repeat the question. She did. I said, “I don’t think it was excellent, but I don’t think I could have done better.” Then I named two specific weak points in the scene.
She said, “It’s good to know your level.”
And I agree. I wasn’t being self-pitying or self-judging — just honest about where I’m currently at.
I’ve had trouble with complexity here. A few days ago, we had three mistakes to resolve, and when I chose one hug, one kiss, and one Swedish handshake, I sensed tension as though people thought I was trying to be unnecessarily cute. And that’s literally 1+1+1=3. Complexity seems to be frowned upon. So what do I do when I’m tasked with following the fun, and sometimes find complexity fun?
At coffee today, a classmate realized Los Angeles is on the west coast rather than the east, and mentioned she formerly thought Africa was the world’s biggest country. She’s also had much more success than I have in recent class sessions.
Maybe I’m expecting something different from these clowns than they have to give. I’ve watched people forget a promise five minutes after making it. I’ve watched them make complete 180s in real time. Perhaps an excellent clown is so right-brained they exist only in the present moment.
Regardless, they’re great clowns.
I’m gonna miss them. 🤡
—
I’m excited to have some time away.
In January, a friend arrives to the school. That’ll be nice. We’ll take a course together. Probably live together. It’s good to bring a friend. 😀
I asked the assistant about switching classes; she said it’d be good for them administratively. So I might as well try it for one course: Melodrama. After that comes Bouffon, then Vaudeville. A change of pace. And if it’s still rough, I’ll know it’s not the section.
As for the newsletter: I was supposed to be on winter break from clown school for six weeks (Dec 13–Jan 25). Now it’s nine weeks. I’ll continue writing daily for two reasons:
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:
Take it as a sign from the gods and get the fuck out of here, returning in January.
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.
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 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.
Julian Wise 