Ah, and here we are, back at the circus. I'm worried about the funambulists, having been one myself, teetering on the edge, learning not to fall by virtue of doing it and learning to be brave by knowing what my downfall would mean. So I've got one eye on them, the chalk bags, the slackline.
And over here, the elephant, the mysterious must. The blind man's pillar, rope, wall. Fortunately you can see them whole and you see what they are, walking in bored procession, a showgirl riding on the first one's back, legs tucked behind the ears the shape of Africa, a child's mnemonic, the blind man's large fan; they don't want to be here, guided in circles by a woman in spangles who also doesn't want to be here though she smiles like forever: this is the circus, nothing is real.
And now a man in shiny buttons and a whip and the big cats stare out from between the bars like a Rilke poem. They can leave the prison but only if they jump through the hoops. This is the worst, only a step away from gladiators; but whose entertainment is this for? You feel the tears burn your eyes at this final performance, so far from any function that no form could follow it, and the leather cracks and the lions jump through the circles, another and another. This is no savanna, this is nothing to do with their nature, this is not the delicious flesh they were born to tear from bone, and now you're really crying.
"Don't take it so seriously," they say. "It's just a circus! It's fun!" and you scan the three rings, looking at the plate spinners, the hobbled horses, the freaks, but all you can see is the stress, the cruelty, abandonment; even the clowns have to paint their faces or you would never believe they were happy.
"Don't be so sensitive!" they say. "It's just a circus!" Exactly.
tuckova 
Leave a comment