Most instances of my clowning spring out from a deep sadness within or so it seems to me. There's something inside that i have not been able to reach as yet and has not been able to come out till date.
In fleeting glimpses and meandering motions of thought and feeling though, i can see it for what it appears to be at times.
The clown springs from a deep well of an antagony for most systems. It comes alive in this opposition. It exists to antagonise, to throw people of their comfort, to enjoy itself in their discomfort and hold them if it feels the want to do so.
These are the skeletal remains of the story of my childhood, one that did not play out this way nor has ever been told -- even to me. This is the story that comes out in the middle of a period of extreme haze and, in the moment it filtered into my brain, extreme sleepiness. Lucidity in sleep, it has happened before. I thank it.
Childhood memories feel like a piece of lead -- it's heavy -- inside that show no signs of easing up on the weight and flying off into oblivion. They just are. Sometimes i cannot feel them, but present they always are.
The story of childhood was one of being forced into a straightjacket that fit too tight and whose straps bit too deep. The scars still exist -- else, there would be no words right now -- and play themselves up in moments of insecurity. This childhood was one of hating redundancy and indifference -- they were intimate friends who decided to roost in my brain. To be fair, i must have been fertile territory back then. They lived well and they the structures they created are still being dug up by archaeologists like sleep and awareness, whenever they decide to raise their tools and go exploring.
What's the connection with clowning, I ask? Are you asking the same question too?
For this clown, it is never about you. It has always been, and still is it seems, about me. The clown that for so long stayed buried under a pile of misgivings and fears projected on others is willing to step out, shake off the dust and take a chance to breathe the air above rather than sleep with the earthworms and the fishes. I prefer my attention to theirs.
For long, that is the one thing i neglected doing -- paying attention to me. There went a childhood. Reclaiming it is not easy or possible, All that is possible is to live the way i live today. The clown comes to the fore in this reality. There are no masks, no noses -- mine is big and red enough to do the trick. Of course, a little paint or plastic may help you make the distinction between clown and person behind the clown.
But if you make this distinction, you forget one fundamental reality. The clown is the person waiting to come out. The clown is not the person behind the mask. The clown has no mask. The clown just is.
- Hormazd Homi