the trapeze artist's reliable feet

They're calling me. I can hear the tumultuous, frantic applause. I'm the next act. Frankie is hissing at me through his two remaining teeth that add to his garish, painted lopsided smile, that to me seems more like a grimace. Frankie never actually smiles, which makes the crimson strip of paint seem even more frightening. It seems strange to me that some of the most sorrowful people I have met have been clowns. Frankie isn't sad though, he is an angry and bitter man; his greatest affliction is his unfailing belief that he deserves more from life, that the universe is weighted against him. The circus is full of people like him, a plethora of unaccounted- for dreams, paraded each night for your entertainment madame et monsiours. Ah yes, you come in droves to witness our magic, to be taken to another world where we defy all your rules, where normality is twisted like our contortionist's body as she turns back on herself until her head touches her toes. This is what you come to see, you marvel at the world we create, so separate from your own- you see only Frankie's painted grin, you don't find out he never smiles. You don't want to find out. Jaques swallows the sword and doesn't die. While you are here you feel like nothing can touch you, you are invincible, immortal- you watch us trick death, tame lions, breathe fire and for a while you start to believe that maybe we are more than what we seem, we are greater and so are you. I understand, I wanted to believe it too, but once you know the tricks you understand the deceit and can never be part of it again. Sometimes I long to be deceived, those were simpler times, but then I look at Frankie's grimacing smile I am thankful for what I know, thankful that I know the tricks so can no longer be tricked. Frankie's cheeks are getting redder, his whiskers are wobbling as his chubby head gestures vigorously towards the stage. Spittle is gathering on the sides of his mouth- white specks smudging the crimson smile. I smile at him slightly and nod, I know my act should have started by now, I can hear the audience becoming restless and disgruntled, their attention span is short, if its not instantaneous its not good enough. Perhaps the suspense will do them good. My body feels strange, restless; I command it to move forward onto the stage but my feet have forgotten how to walk. How strange for feet to forget! I look down at them, clad in soft, supple ballet slippers, and again will them to move forward, and this time I think I can detect a slight twitch in my right big toe, but I cannot take a step. The audience is screaming now for the next act and the Ringmaster appears, angry eyes asking me what the hell my problem is. I'm not sure how to tell him that my feet have forgotten how to be feet. Frankie and Him both begin to scream at me, swearing and threatening, but still my feet forget. I close my eyes and try to block it out. I picture myself up in the air, swinging, soaring, far away. Finally I open my eyes, and take a tentative step. My feet seem to be behaving again and I walk out onto the stage, and the audience begins to clap loudly, happy that their calls have been heard and answered. The lights dim, and Harry walks out behind me, concern lingering in his eyes, as if he senses my fragility. His eyes ask me if I'm alright, and I nod in reply and smile. Satisfied he pulls down the rope attached to the ceiling and helps me link my hand through it, in the correct grasp. We achieve this through a dance, for in the circus everything must be entertainment, all practical trivialities disguised. We are all about disguises here. He pulls the rope once, then content, he picks me up with little effort at all, and holds me above his head, so that I look as if I'm flying. Then he lets go, and the rope lifts me, and I ascend slowly, beautifully, rotating myself, doing somersaults in the air, to a chorus of whispered wonder from the crowd. I like it when the audience becomes still, there are too few moments of stillness in our world. I reach the iron bar, and grip it with two hands, and it begins to sway slightly from my effort. I pull myself up onto the swing, delighting in the feeling of my stomach tensing, and my core muscles at work, I delight in my body's power. I twist my body, in a somersault around the bar so that I am perched upon it, and then I begin to swing, and the wind rushes past me, and I feel like a child, my whole being feels somehow lighter, I feel a release almost, an intense feeling of freedom that I cannot get from anything else. My knees bend and straighten alternately pushing the swing further and further until somehow I feel it has reached the right height and speed and at that moment I fling myself backwards off it, eyes shut, and my faithful feet remember to catch me, at the final second linking through the ropes on either side of the bar, so that I am swinging upside down, and the audience erupts into applause, but I cannot hear them. I am somewhere else now, somewhere far above, and all I can feel is the motion of the swing and the strength of my reliable feet.