Outside of town yards upon yards of
canvas are being stretched and elevated on and over the ground. The
ground is wet and clay with green grass growing in small gathered
portions. The grass exist only at the clay's mercy. Foot prints
engrave the ground and create tiny canyons and gather water to the
bottom of each treads ravine. The canvas cloth has long since
forgotten its life of pure spun cotton. Even the hands who form it
view the canvas as a ancient deity of existences and not a commodity
of common man's trade. This skin we shape is dragon's flesh upon
shafts of wood taken from the Trojan's Horse. The ground it inhabits
is no longer earth, nor heaven, but somewhere that exist on in the
privilege of the human mind. Welcome one and all to the Circus.
There is a girl who has lived for the
Tiger's Circus for the whole of her consciences thought. She has no
true start in her life. When all are born we cry out and scream for
our Mother. Our arms push at the air and our eyes open from birth to
see what will become familiar. The Girl Mona of the Tiger's Circus
had no such start. Her mouth did not sound, and her Mother did not
answer her because she was lost in the process of bring Mona here.
Mona never felt her Mother's touch, and therefore she never cried,
and she never opened her eyes. Rather she opened her eyes but saw
nothing that is the start of familiar.
What is easy for common man, is
unfamiliar to Mona. What is familiar to Mona stands as uncommon to
the whole of man. Mona throw the Nine Tiger's Knives at a audience
volunteer in the Tiger's Circus. To the audience member of such a
privilege, they are left without description of the experiences that
follows the Nine Knives of Mona to pass nearer than fate to them in a
circular fashion. For to describe the in describable, it is as though
hearing your first child cry his or her's first cry after birth. To
those who have no children, you may try to imagine the experience
with a melancholy state of mind. To the parent who has heard this
call, you are made familiar with that which is very unfamiliar.
To my best friend whom I see now in my
mind I want to call back and tell you something about yourself. Maybe
the words are too full of great notion to be any present day help.
Because the ideas I have of you sounds more as the speech of Marc
Anthony to the Murdered Body of Caesar than to the real life man whom
you are today. Still this version of you lives in the halls of my
mind and my description of you will only be larger and taller than
all other men once I am to the age where the young want to listen to
me. You wore a smile that drew a line of division to the men of less
confident self faith around you. Your dreams lived at the height of
your voices volume. Your enemies were numerous and your closest
counsel was the man who stood to your side. You made war at social
peace treaties that others had formed in alliance with one another.
Your Love rose to new heights daily, by your own professing or your
own forgetting. You won, you loved and you won. To all who did not
know how you did this, you did it through the rejection. To every
conflict, there is dirt that we are ground in to, and blood that is
pulled out of us. When others tremble at this thought, you addicted
yourself to the sensation of it.
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