writing

Parking lot circus: CABALLERO

| betweenstops

As soon as I stepped inside to the darkness and the sound of heavy and light feet going up and down the metal stands with seats in anticipation of what is going to be the circus, I was happy.  When it starts, my breath is taken away by the beautiful young people, with their talent in costumes galore, prancing out on the stage in music, song and dance presenting themselves

One by one you get to know them: the two clowns that work off each other, the juggler and the many trapeze artists who are gloriously attired. Two of them missed the catch, and fell to the net below. “Ooooo  Aaaahh”. 

The strong bodies in the colorful skintight stretchy outfits are stellar with bright light bouncing off and around them. They are archetypal. They are an age old tradition. These people are traveling and living in the trailers that form the corral in the parking lot. At intermission, the people serving me Coke and popcorn are the same people preforming death defying acts earlier. They are a family.

After intermission, the big metal globe made of chain rolls out onto the stage and I think “Oh no. I thought maybe we weren’t going to have to do this.” 

But we do. The giant globe motorcycle act. Inside a tent, this act is nauseating from the gas fumes. And loud. The Mexican aspect makes it bearable.

First one guy gets in there and he zooms all the way around the circle; upside down at the top and truly that’s enough, but then a second guy goes in there, and zooms perpendicular to the first guy. Then a third guy comes in. He’s the diagonal track. A fourth one comes in and the fourth one is the smallest in the family and he crosses himself before he starts his ride and his ride is short.

The final act is a love story. A man and a woman balance at opposite ends of the same tightrope. They are doing amazingly ridiculous things in supreme balance. Watching someone that balanced, does something to you.

When home, all I had left of the magic was the popcorn container. On it is a picture of the circus family. It is now a napkin holder, holding my memories and my longings.

A Bug’s Life

| betweenstops

With all the rainy weather, the ants have come inside. They are all over my kitchen counter. Even when I have nothing that they can possibly eat on the counter, they are running around looking for food. If I do spy a bit of even avocado, covered with ants, I take the plate outside, get rid of the avocado and before you know it, those guys are clean gone.

I once had a spiritual teacher who said that if it was only himself and an ant after the nuclear holocaust he would do everything in his power to make friends with that ant. The statement made an impression upon me. Now almost a decade after that teacher has left his body, I look at an ant and I wonder how can I make us friends.

Ants are not the only evidence of insects in my house. My high school senior son has been doing a report on insects. He has a shoebox with a styrofoam square on the bottom. In neat rows, there is a grid of dead insects with pins poking through them. They hover over the Styrofoam, still as can be: dry, beautiful and intricate.

He has another shoe box of butterflies. I was looking at the butterflies today, and I said out loud to myself, “They are so beautiful, it’s too bad they’re dead.“ In my mind, I heard a voice say, “But I am not dead.” 

I knew I hadn’t been getting enough sleep but still this kind of hallucination was unusual. I’ve never heard voices in my head before. I looked at the box more closely and saw that one of the blue butterflies wings was maybe slightly moving. Then I thought I saw an antenna jerk. I looked around for some kind of validation of what I was seeing but there was no one else in the room. I wanted to ask my son but he was gone at a friend’s house. I looked more closely at the box. For sure the wings were moving.

There was no wind I was inside with no heat and no air-conditioning, no open window or door open. No breeze. I heard the voice again, “I am not dead. You just think I am.” The voice was coming from the box. I looked a third time. The blue butterfly’s wings were definitely moving. I pulled out her pin, and she flew away.