Of Random Thoughts, Clowns, and Rain

Have you ever felt so stripped of your soul you weren’t quite sure how to put one foot in front of the other and move forward; or even backstep into the ease of regression? Have you ever been so whittled down to nothing the only thing less possible than moving at all is standing still? A pure emotional adrenaline shock to the system that leaves you a mere shell of the shell you once were?

Yeah, me neither.

It is late and I have now eased onto the porch with a fresh Evil Williams (with a splash) and a newly clipped and fired CAO Gold Double Corona. It is some cooler tonight but muggy as fuck and my ratty old blue polo clings to my back and pits. It is not an entirely uncomfortable feeling.

I’ve slipped below the radar of late, unable to bring pen to pad or fingers to keys. My thinker is a fucking mess lately and I’m not sure how to remedy that. Often, my elixir for that which ails me is a snoot full of whiskey, a fine cigar, and… well, pens and pads, fingers and keys. My therapy don’t seem to therapize these days. I am an optimistic Randle Patrick McMurphy, convinced I’ll charm my way to freedom. When, actually, my biggest fear is the likelihood that Nurse Ratched is plugging in her thought-fixer and concurrently labeling my forehead “Next.” Not to worry. I don’t need the pillow yet, Chief. Not yet. But you may want to keep it handy just the same. (Christ. I’m a sucker for Allusion). I will cliché up a cliché until it is no longer a cliché, but instead new and clever—if only to me.

The me that is me has to laugh when I get so maudlin. I mean sad clowns are still clowns, right? I always liked the sad ones the best. Those sad, silent clowns. They wore their sadness like a hair shirt. But, because they didn’t speak, we (the audience) were forced to intuit or assume. What heavy burdens they seemed to bear. Beat down by life. Betrayed, somehow. But they took in stride the shit dealt them and persevered. I often imagined those guys after a performance, removing their clown paint, ultimately revealing an identical expression, only less pale. They had simply painted over what was already there. I never laughed at the sad clowns, but I felt they wouldn’t have minded if I had. The one scribbling this would rather be the source of a laugh than just about anything else. It is the thing that makes life seem just about ok.

So to digress from my digression, I have slipped below the radar. Fuck, I am off the chart actually. I’ve needed a respite and will likely take a longer one. Need a little time to duct tape my head into place. It may not be attractive, but duct tape can fix anything…

It is nearing 1 a.m. Because I am a foolish man, I just put fire to another cigar. A lovely La Flor Dominicana Ligero—hefty ring size. I am tired enough to sleep a week. But my shirt is no longer sticking to me and I need to talk.

My perfect Boy sleeps the unencumbered sleep of childhood, stretched carefree and motionless in his large bed. I break away from the porch ever so often to watch him. I need the smile his person affords. He told me the other evening, “I just love you all da time, Daddy.” That is why I am not ready for the pillow; why I will rise with only a vestige of my own sleep, and start a new day. He is a marvel, that Boy. Sometimes watching him sleep is rest enough for me.

I found the following blurb in my notebook from our recent trip to DC. I must have intended to put it here and it just never finished itself:

I am on the roof of an apartment building on 11th in DC. Near Mass. Avenue, between L & M (?). I don’t know what that means actually. I assume it is simply parlance to give folks in the know a satellite-like sense of just where in DC one is. Apparently location is everything—and then some. I have with me a full rocks glass of Makers and a splash, an evenly burning CAO Brazilia, a waterproof Eddie Bauer bag of ice, one 20 ounce Coke, and one half full bottle of Makers. I also brought a sheet of aluminum foil for a makeshift ashtray. I think it was the sight of the foil that ran off the three people who were here first. Fuck ‘em. I instantly disliked them anyway.

From here I see the top of the Capitol Building and a hint of the Washington Monument. It is a superbly mild, breezy night for August. Comfortable. But I would rather be in Boston, drinking beer and listening to accents. The bravado of Boston appeals to me. If you knew me that might surprise you. It sure as shit surprises me. There is something comical about the arrogance of Bostonians. As such the arrogance is endearing instead of off-putting. I like the fuckers. I wouldn’t want to fight one, but I sure like drinking and talking with them…

That’s it.

DC was fine, but full of the other clowns. Not the sad clowns that make me introspective and sadhappy. But a cornucopia of foreignness and activity. The people there are at once perfect and wealthy (it seems) and perfect and poor (it seems) and arrogant and decent and utterly self-absorbed. It is a fascinating place (it also seems) that is acutely aware of its vulnerability. I can respect that. I will go back, dance a slow arrangement with historical perspective. I’ve long been drawn to the inexplicable.

I think it is supposed to rain tomorrow. As a child, there were few things more special to me than walking in the rain. Maybe I’ll do that tomorrow. Walk in the rain with the Boy as far and back as our legs will take us. Taste and wear the rain as it falls. Cover ourselves in those wet sheets. Or maybe I’ll sit on the porch with him and point to it. Tell him how cleansing a good rainwalk can be. Tell him how peaceful he looked as he slept tonight. Tell him that not all clowns are scary. That the sad ones are sometimes wise. Tell him that sometimes in the crevice of night, beneath the blue hue of cigar smoke and humidity, some daddies are clowns to. And I’ll remove my face paint for him only, revealing not the sadness beneath, but the joy his company brings. And I will watch him watch the rain. And later, I will watch him sleep once more, secure and safe and ignorant of self-doubt and the havoc it wreaks.