This earth is a circus. It’s about time it got its act together. There is an audience, waiting. There are animals pacing, fretting, hating. The big top is filled with suspense and the acrobats are waiting to fly. Where is the ringmaster? The circus is at a standstill until the ringmaster arrives. What can he possibly be doing? His show waits to go on.
Perhaps he has been eaten around the back, by a tiger. Perhaps he is drunk, in his trailer. Perhaps he has forgotten that he has a performance this day? Whatever his excuse, it is not good enough. You cannot choose to be ringmaster and then neglect your duties.
The wild animals would all like to kill the ringmaster. Each one of them. He is a nuisance to them. A man who punishes, bullies, exploits. A noise. Each flick of his whip is a death-wish. If he should turn his back on the wild for even one moment, he will lose his life. He knows this so he shouts, postures, threatens. The animals watch and they obey, wearily tolerating man’s ego.
The clowns are sweating yesterday’s booze and this morning’s boredom. They know their act is not funny but they line up in the wings, ready to entertain with fake enthusiasm. The audience is anticipating stupidity from the clowns, and they will deliver that stupidity with practiced ease. They always do. They are paid to do that.
The tightrope is strung high. There is no safety net. This day the walker will perform successfully, or die. He is fortunate that all eyes on his progress keeps him glued to the sky. The walker watches horizons, he does not watch each of his steady steps, forwards. You cannot look down and hope to know where you are going.
The dogs are the only ones who enjoy their performance. They find fun in lying, rolling, jumping hoops. They know that each trick will earn them a treat, a reward. That is enough to motivate them into obeying orders.
C.J. Birch
C.J. Birch 