Where the hell is Gladys?

I have been SO busy of late. And sick too. Not horribly. But as those of you who follow this blog know, a cough, cold or upset stomach is a big no-no on the job, so I haven't been clowning for nearly 3 weeks. I do miss Gladys. But if all goes well, she should be back in action this Tuesday at Philomena's. Must go check all her clothes and props are ready.

Meanwhile, here is a lovely pic from the Alliance show we had in June, it was taken by a young journalist Rajiv Bangera who covered us for a new magazine that should be out in August. I think it is the sweetest picture and it sums up the heart of Gladys and Rose and what they're here for.

Howdy, parrrrrd-ner.

Cheesy, yes. And I know that many people don't appreciate Peter Sellers' The Party. It was actually BANNED in India during the 70s. I've never figured out why. It would be a bit like Britain banning Mr. Bean. I loved The Party, and never quite felt I was laughing "at" Hrundi V. Bakshi, more like "with" him. Besides, he was the nicest character in the film - innocent, self-accepting, playful, heroic, chivalrous, principled.

Ah - a clown!

But people have a hard time accepting clowns, perhaps. Recently, I had a doubly saddening experience when a recovering-alcoholic friend of mine called me up, quite drunk. Not only was I saddened and worried by his falling off the wagon, but then he went on to tell me how worried he was that I had become a clown!

Huh?Apparently my wonderful ability to switch between Nazu and Gladys had him frantically fearing the disappearance of Nazu altogether, leaving the world with Gladys alone. Hmmm. Gladys is lovely but I'm not about to hand over my life to her!

Anyway, I take that as a compliment and affirmation of my acting abilities! But apart from this, he also went on to talk about how clowning was not only harmful (as in the danger of the clown in you taking over a la The Exorcist) but also how humiliating it was.

Of course, he was drunk, so this was coming from a somewhat unclear mind, on top of his own perceptions or projections about what a clown is and does. To me, there's nothing humiliating about being a clown. It's wonderfully freeing, and to me, the most noble profession I could have stumbled across. My plastic red nose shares living quarters with the Rolex my dad bequeathed to me when he retired. And is just as precious.

Perhaps the people who banned The Party had the same perceptions and projections about the character of Hrundi V. Bakshi. Which brings me back to why I've titled this post as I did.

Severine and I are now partners - we signed a contract today and will run the Dr Clown India program together. All voluntary and honorary and all that (as in 'no money') but oh so rewarding and so much fun. I am HUGELY excited about it. And also about having Severine as a partner - she's a wonderful person and a brilliant clown, and I think we complement each other so well, I can't wait to see how we develop Dr Clown. (And if you can't wait either, then keep checking in here to find out how it's going.)

Once Upon Dusty Floorboards

Once upon dusty floorboards, I smelt a rose, and thought of trees.

To be honest, it wasn't once upon, it was just yesterday, in my acting class. I sat on the floor, breathing heavily - no, gasping, if I remember correctly - after some ghastly and very sadistic body work exercise that had us all running, hopping, waving our arms about and sweating a lot.

I thought of trees as I ran my fingers over old and new nails pounded through the wooden panel flooring of this little hall at Baldwin Boys' School. I wondered how many trees were part of the hall. And how long they had been there. I wondered what the panels might have looked like when they were new, when they were somebody's pride, to be waxed and polished on a regular basis. I wondered if the soul and spirit of each tree was still present there in those boards. Is wood dead? As long as it is still wood, perhaps that inner energy and wisdom of the tree is still within, ebbing slowly, very slowly, as the years go by and the wood wears down and years of dust and indifference gradually stifle it.

And once upon those dusty floorboards - still yesterday - I smelt a rose, although I did not see one: just a slender stalk and three leaves still perfect. The rose had gone, perhaps crumpled into someone's pocket or hymn book or cleavage. The stalk with its three leaves lay there so prettily and poignantly, I had to pick it up. And was rewarded with the divine fragrance of the long-gone rose, still clinging to those leaves.

I must have used it all up, because no one else who took a whiff could smell that fragrance. Perhaps it was just meant for me.