In A Circus Tent

July 24th
Oh my love. My dear love. I know you will never read this but this is the only way I can confess my true feelings. Angela, oh my sweet Angela. How graceful you are. How poetic you are. How truly divine you are.

Clouds of all shades of grey through which a dirty shower poured all but camouflaged a circus tent. The animals in their cages were by now conditioned to infinite variations of bleakness so they carried on being lions, horses and elephants. Lions, horses and elephants with a sense of bitterness and cynicism but still, pretty much lions, horses and elephants. The strongman sat on an empty spectator seat prising the dirt out from the crevices in between his toes’ nails. There was really nothing for him to do nothing that he could do given the circumstance of what recently happened. The only other circus performer in the tent at the time was the trapeze artist sat upon her swing reading an anthology of poetry. An anthology belonging to Bokko. It was Bokko’s face on the circus posters. It was Bokko whom the audiences paid to see. Bokko’s stage name was on the lips of the great and the good of the high and the mighty in all sections of the globe. He was loved by the underclasses and by the ruling class. To see Bokko perform was a masterclass in comedy. The pelting rain on the striped canvas acted as a percussive soundtrack to meditative poetry reading and foot cleaning. The strongman looked up at the book reading trapeze artist and fiddled with his moustache. He returned back to prising out dirt.

July 25th
Angela

The ringmaster had gathered all around for a talk. All were silent. The ringmaster knew that talking was undesirable for his ‘other’ family after the recent event but he also knew that not talking was an unhelpful alternative. To start things rolling the ringmaster gave them an autobiographical history about himself and his first encounter with Bokko. How he was a struggling, unpopular, much despised street performer. That many a night he was assaulted and left for dead by drunken gangs. Nevertheless he still performed regularly to those hostile audiences. An audacity greatly admired by the man in the tall black top hat, stringy moustache and red tails. He needed brave people in his circus as live entertainment had an element of danger to it. He knew that this unpopular yet persistent clown would be able to cope with such an exacting taskmaster as he. His ‘other’ family chuckled at this particular point of his reminiscence of Bokko. It wasn’t that he could be cruel at times as he was cruel all of the time. Many a child who ran away to join the circus would without further ado run back in the opposite direction for the more glamorous profession of cleric or storekeeper. Careers that many dreamt of but few achieved. The only performers in his circus that did not experience his ferocity and his humiliating sarcasm were the lions, horses and elephants. He showed a fatherly affection to each beast, making sure they got fed before any of his ‘other’ family did. Sometimes he had more concern over them than his real family.

All laughed when he described the tryout for the ringmaster’s circus and how many things went wrong. After a long period of failure and a huge loss of earnings the ringmaster was eventually proven right. Bokko raised the bar of quality for clowning and comedy. Everybody in the circus began to rehearse more, do things differently and become very self critical because of Bokko. A talent as superior as Bokko’s would be insulted if it was surrounded by minor acts and tenth rate performances. How could one describe Bokko’s clowning? An almost impossible task but it could be boiled down to the simple sentence that it was clean crudity influenced by vulgar sophistication. Bokko’s subtlety made sure that it was fun for all the family. The ringmaster finished his story and after a relaxed pause all the performers one by one began to tell theirs. The trapeze artist used all her strength to hold back the tears as she told hers.

July 26th
I dream of you my dear Angela. I dream of you and I together. You will never know how much I love you. How my make up is running as I weep when writing this. I write this in secret and hide this diary in the dead of night. Nobody will ever read this and therefore I can write my true feelings for you Angela. I’m such a despicable coward. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself.

Rehearsals occurred the following day. An air of melancholy underscored the performances but it was a beautiful and poetic melancholy. An acrobat was stood upon two ornately decorated white horses cantering around the circus ring. During the time that Bokko was around she would have a smile on her face reflecting the very soul of our sun. The true essence of life was within her. No matter how grey the skies were, how heavy the rain showers when that acrobat stood on those graceful white horses under the canvas was a crimson sunset that reminded that all who lived were fortunate to be alive within that circus tent. But that evening things were different. The young woman upon the horses looked very alone. The public watched in silence as they wept. The young woman could not weep for no emotions existed that could justify a reaction to what recently happened. A spotlight illuminated her pale cold face. A small child gazed up at his mother who was in turn gnashing onto her knuckles. The ringmaster’s heart beated as he observed the performance. It was a full house that night but that night the big top became a venue of intimacy. The circus became a church.

July 27th
Please forgive me Angela. I know you are unaware of how much I love you but I feel a strong sense of guilt over what happened. On Sunday I was sat upon the steps leading to the midgets’ caravan playing airs on my concertina when I was approached by Mary. She could see that something was wrong; my face was unable to lie. Concerned she asked me how I was feeling. After being told that I was thinking deeply and critically about my act, what to do to keep it afresh, she nodded and walked away. Forgive me for lying. I should have told Mary about my true feelings for you. She is trustworthy, she wouldn’t mock, she would know what to do. Please tell me Angela, why am I such a despicable unworthy buffoon? Tell me. I don’t deserve you.

When the evening’s proceedings came to a close it was rounded off by the head of the circus midgets delivering a eulogy whilst all the performers and the ringmaster stood behind holding candles. The people listened in darkness. Outside the circus tent the departing spectators did not pay attention to the moon and the stars. Families and friends comforted each other imparting words of love and thankfulness. Complete strangers looked at one another with mutual trust, with mutual affection. Inside the circus tent the head of the circus midgets had collapsed. The strongman attempted to revive him but the acrobat was more successful with her smelling salts. It was all too much for this midget. He was the first to break the news to the circus and it meant a lot for him to deliver a eulogy of love, of appreciation. Nearly all congratulated him on his bravery at such a tough time. The trapeze artist herself was up on her swing and mourning in the darkness. Tomorrow the tent would come down and the circus family would move with their painted wooden caravans to the next town.

July 28th
Who am I kidding? Why am I wasting time writing this? I am communicating with nothing, with nobody. I am a worthless failure. I shouldn’t be breathing. I am unworthy of life. I am unworthy of Angela. There’s no way someone as good as her would be as interested in someone as base as me. It’s all so petty.

On the ride to the next town the trapeze artist and the horse riding acrobat conversed with one another. “Do you think the circus will carry on?” Asked the acrobat.
“I can hardly say. It’ll be painful if we continue but what else can we do? It’s a frightening world out there.” Replied the trapeze artist.
The acrobat sighed and said, “Who knows what he was thinking.”
“I don’t know. I could have known. I sensed something was up when he was playing his concertina sat outside the midget’s caravan. I should have seen right through his answer. He had no need to be so pensive about his performance.”
“He’s now left a big hole. People like Bokko only come in ones.”
“You are an expert in speaking in clichés.” Said Mary.
“Clichés are sometimes the only phrases we have to hand.” Replied Angela.
Mary sighed and said to herself, “Wish I told him how much I loved him.”

And the circus rode into the horizon, to give the public entertainment. Entertainment that was underlined with pained hearts. Left behind, buried where the spectator’s seating was once placed was a dirty brown leather diary with an inscription inside from the strongman to his greatest friend, Bokko.

And it was still raining.

© 2009 Clinton Morgan