Cross my palm with silver

I am past mistress at the art of illusion. Everything is made up and false and even though I know at times I do it very well--it sometimes still amazes how few people can tell the difference, can see where the makeup line extends below the jaw, slightly unblended and garish in the bright lights, but we go on as though we don't notice the demarcation. And possibly nine out of ten observers simply do not notice that it is there.

Made-up things. Perhaps that is all there is--this is maybe the greatest show on earth. So why not step right up to the big tent and see what awaits.

A three-ring circus unfolds. Lions and tigers and elephants all in a row. Spangles and sparkles and whips and chains, a master of ceremonies in a dashing top hat, clowns whizzing by on bicycles built for twos. And the smoke and mirrors create a spectacle of dreams that are at once real and imagined.

I fly through the air with the greatest of ease, but the work that goes into climbing that ladder and grabbing hold of that bar, who can know? All that matters is the performance. Draw the oohs and the aahs with grace and aplomb. Keep them wanting more. Knees up, hands off, let go.

And all around the blaze of colored lights and the calliope music and the neverending crush of bodies in a maelstrom of sight and sound and smell and it's a rush of supreme sensory overload but you cannot walk away--when after all it was you who ran away to join the circus.

It is at times so incredibly fucked up. It is at times horrifyingly disturbing to be the puppet master and the puppet, to know the intricacies and the inner workings, the blood and guts kept contained by a gossamer tether that must remain altogether unseen. The flip side, another world, what lies beneath that candy shell. A kind of magic.

And today I simply can't decide if it is better to bewitch or be bewitched by the constant clamor of glamour. Because I have been in a migraine-induced stupor made worse by great fears and nasties and things that go bump in the night. Long-leggedy beasties crawling around in my brain and my heart that tell me all this is for naught and the big top is about to catch on fire and a stampede is evident and we may not all make it out alive. Even as I dreadfully mix up the metaphors that is how it is.

When you know what it is you want and who it is you want and what is best for you--your stark cold lovely reality--why is the brass ring always just out of reach, when only a little more height or a little slower the carousel your fingertips could easily grasp it and not just graze it? The fun lies in the motion and the music surely. But it would be nice to just stop for a second, or a lifetime perhaps, and get to enjoy the ride rather than searching endlessly for the right route to the destination.

Crazy old carnival.