Many years ago, as a bare-faced adolescent, I read a passage of scripture in Church, and hadn’t the faintest clue what I was talking about. I’m not sure, many years hence, what the passage means, but this month it has come back to haunt me, like a trauma. So I will start this year’s bloggery, which I fancy isn’t going to be an easy ride, with a little bit of Bible. Make of it what you will: it’s up to you.
And since we’re onto the complications of
interpretation, I will post the first of this year’s sequence, a bunch of
rather silly semi-poetical (ie, prose-poem) pieces which fall under the title, Charlotte and the Charlatan – and other
Cautionary Tales. The first was published in the second anti-zine, Circus, produced by those wonderful antisocial
writers. I urge (nay, I demand) you buy the whole magazine. And look out for
more of these quirky tales here on this site.
If you want, you might offer a suggestion to what
they mean. God knows, I haven’t a clue.
Charlotte & The Charlatan
The Circus finally came to town on a
Tuesday afternoon, with a caravan of clichés and a rhythm without any tune. It
arrived in time for the Shrovetide Fair (or was it in June, or September? Was
it Easter or Christmas? Nobody cared, or any rate, no-one remembered.)
When
the Circus arrived it was later than dead, it was done-for and
more-than-delayed; it was rotten and rotted, mouldy and useless, moth-ridden,
diseased and decayed.
Charlotte
and The Charlatan went along to investigate. They turned up prematurely. The
Circus was typically late.
The
trailers came in dribs and drabs (more drab than drib) slowly but surely. One
by one they traipsed; then two by two they were introduced to the crew. The
Wizard and Lottie discovered their tales were incredible: neither factual nor
true. Far from contrived, or a con-trick, The Circus was simply deluded right
through.
The
Head of the Clowns kept his smiles and his frowns in a plastic bag purchased
from Aldi. Suspiciously chipper, he
claimed he was descended from Grimaldi.
The
Lion-Tamer, lacking a head, played a mean game of Russian Roulette. As a mimic,
he put the Mime-Artist to shame, but suffered (fuck!) from (shit!) Tourette’s.
The
Tight-Rope Walker, aptly-named, was permanently pissed. He was tight as a tic, wired,
high as a kite – it was more than his balance he missed.
The
Bearded Lady had had a close shave when the Freaks showed her up as a fraud.
The Midgets and Giants took ill-matched sides and ganged up on the Dwarves.
The
Circus never saw themselves as failures – they were, indeed, most entertaining.
But according to the Trade Descriptions Act, what the tin said wasn’t what they
were claiming.
The
public paid good money to see, and a spectacle’s just what they got. If they
were expecting a show, show-business it
was not.
Were
they deluded by grandeur, fooled by illusions, thinking themselves worthy, or
simply corrupt? Either way, the Big Top was a big flop, and their departure, likewise,
abrupt.
The
Charlatan said, The Circus weren’t failures, but part of a larger contagion. In
Society, nothing is certain, not even the claims of established religion.
Life’s
a breeze if you can trapeze; a struggle if you can’t juggle. If your aim is
only to please other people, your head can be left in a muddle.
The
Circus departed, depressed, bankrupt, and Lottie was left with a lesson. Misfortunes
and failures, lies and misdeeds, foibles and fears, and worst nightmares remain
if you try to be something you’re not. The Circus became a vague memory to
some; but for most, it was quickly-forgot.
They
left the town not a moment too soon on a wet Wednesday afternoon, with a caravan
of broken delusions, and a rhythm without any tune.
