There is a delicate balance (as in all things) in the achievement of the ultimate thrill and in the dulling, or conversely tarnishing of it.
That thought, in those outdated words (I'd been reading Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing is essentially the only love story I've ever yearned for... For a Beatrice... Or to be a Beatrice.) has never been so strongly with me (tho it occurs oft enough), as standing in the room-for-one-only-or-two-if-I-have-an-arm-around-my-greatest-friend-corner between the shiny steel pillar and the dropoff to the stairs - as last night, eyes bouncing along the arms and heaving shoulders of the dance floor.
That movie scene I talked about? HAH. No blood from the ceiling a-la Blade could've rendered the scene any more thrilling - and any more home.
Turning to catch a glimpse of a fuzzy head and too-tall too-broad shoulders of Normand (though I was sure his name's been Stef all these months of flirting) and get the air squeezed from me in a hug - hey, he offered me a job...
As a clown.
Even in full fishnet-velvet finery, that rubber collar that I bought with Cobalt at "Hot Topic" drawing almost too many admiring fingers (good thing that vest puts me in ultimate extroverted form) from the beautiful beautiful boy with the spider-webbed arms...
Even in full finery, eyes kohled beyond recognition of the strange shape they have to them, how small they are...
Even with hair helplessly caught in that collar, I guess some of the clown stands out.
It's been a long time since I've scooped a child off the floor and uttered impossible syllables until their eyes grow impossibly bright.
Normand, aka "Piffoo" of the Association des Clowns du Quebec has asked me before to help him out cuz I can juggle pitifully...
Something in his antics yesterday, maybe something in the drinks, maybe something in the slow dawning of what career actually means...
Or maybe it was the way he threw his hands in the air and grinned - but I've thought of little else since dropping off to sleep (without the mandatory water so did I have a DOOOZIE headache this morning) and I miss the wild abandon of disfiguring make-up and gleeful charades.
I really, really hope he makes it out to opium tonight.
I really really hope Benoit works out whatever he's got to work out - he's wonderful to hug and still smiles at me as if I were beautiful, but wow oh wow dunno if it's the musician thing but I can't take that self-hating whine.
I really hope cf can make it, I didn't want to startle him out of birthday revelries to drag him out, I really hope...
Oh, I really hope ten million things and between random yet all-too-hard-hitting compliments from half-strangers and job-offers from other half-strangers, there's a clenching in my heart that feels the way it's felt before when I've realized that I won't be seeing a dear friend ever again - only it's anticipation, not unrequited anything.
Change is tough, I guess. We get pushed into it, so many people flee it, it takes so much fucking energy...
And somehow while I shiver a moment on the threshold, I am always happier in the throes of personal (or sometimes not so personal) revolution, I live in terror should pools lie serenely stagnating...
And my battlecry is for change and the courage that comes with it, and my story is that I am riding the waves until I achieve some renaissance dream... Some medieval heroic dignity, but...
I'm wondering if I can ever stop or if I've just chosen to run and upturn rather than stand and toil and while both are noble and both back-breaking, and while I have never shied from the weight of the ploughshare and while I have never sat, sword on the ground while wrongs or rights or grey-areas were being committed...
Alright, whatever, that's utter bilge but what I think I mean...
There's a certain balance to it all and I've got a lot of energy for clowning left in me and for running and screaming and singing and warring with every last ounce of my over-idealistic soul...
I realize there is a lot more for me to do, and I am setting about gathering the flax for my thread.
And I will continue to weave, pausing for my flights up and down countless rollercoasters and jumps off countless cliffs - but I swear, I do...
There is method to this madness, and there is madness in all methods.
And wild abandon is never true abandon and if it is, there is method to it as well.
And so I abandon thee for my shower and fishnets and away I race to charm a clown into painting me rubber-red.