Click here to listen to Ival Stratford Kovner's story "The Confused Clown"
The Confused Pierrot
Ival Stratford Kovner, WE Board Member
Ever listen to the song, “Bohemian Rhapsody” that includes the refrain, “Scaramouch”? Can we do the fandango? Wonder what the heck is a Scaramouch? Innocent bystanders are often the victims of the tricky Scaramouch and perhaps most females, Scaramouchia are to be avoided.
“C’era una volta,” you might begin your story, “One time there was long past and much forgot, ” my Moroccan friend has shared. Or try to start a story as another friend from St. Petersburg, Russia, “There was and there was not.”
Stretch the end to finish a story, as some of my Celtic ancestors would add, “I was present and I drank mead, it ran down my chin, not into mouth, I asked for a cap and received a slap as the story grows to a close.”
The Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius was entertained within his palace walls by jesters who in the emperor’s court were known as dwarf clowns called “rustic buffoons” or named “fussors”. The Court Jester in medieval times signified the “Pierrot” or “Harlequin” of the Commedia.
Most folks do not care to be tricked or deceived.
Jean Gaspard Deburau in the 19th century began a more recognizable version today’s clown but was known to have killed a child with his walking cane. Pagliacci in 1892 brought the concept of the “clown” into Italian Opera – as a killer. Joey Gumaldi added clown makeup we recognize in modern times, but he died a lonely alcoholic death – despite the painted smile on his face.
Joker or Trickster? Some of us may suffer from a touch of coulrophobia following several Batman movies where face makeup may often be distorted and grotesque. Heath Leger and Joaquin Phoenix stand out as examples. Still earlier, Mr. Punch actually beat his wife and children on the stage of a tiny puppet theatre. No wonder we take a second look at every clown face.
Are we all harmless clowns at times? The term “clown” descended from the Nordic word for “clumsy”. Even at an advanced age, anyone may be fooled if they do not maintain a vigilant attitude.
Here the tale begins of Harlequin, the mischievous acrobat, or “Pierrot,” the sad, introspective, wandering fellow. Many transformations take place in this tale. The description of “the clown” may also include rude one, vulgar fool, jackass, bozo twat, churl, ill bred person.
“A story, a story, let it go and let it come,” begins West African tales.
“Here is a story, story it is,” is a quote from Nigerian storytellers.
“Listen to tell it and tell it to teach it,” offer Chilean storytellers. As one of many teaching artists, this notion is instructive.
On with the story: every day the Pierrot checked the mailbox but there was nothing in the box she determined, only letters addressed to “Pagliaccio” or “Buffoon” or even “Stupidous”, along with other foreign sounding names.
IWI, IWI, IWI, IWI, IWI ! This Pierrot was annoyed!
No one could convince her that this mail may indeed have been hers while she frantically surveyed each letter with postmarks from as far away as Spain, Greece, Italy, and Russia, basically from around the world. She refused to listen to good, old advice.
She would not listen to anyone, not even a local elder who had once kindly offered her a nice breakfast welcoming her when she first arrived in the village. No, she was so mad, just so angry, that she transformed from Pierrot into Harlequin as she raged and ranted upsetting everyone near her.
Villagers quietly began to avoid her but were too fearful to do more. Some claimed this was not their responsibility. She was becoming a real, authentic “big magic” trickster. Now in a rage she swore to never check the mailbox again, never ever. All her mail was simply left unopened. Anything landing in her box would be ignored and avoided.
Weeks passed as time moved along. Villagers mostly held their breaths. They lifted their heads slowly, since many were both elderly and arthritic, to view the sky as it now appeared less clear and less bright with each passing day.
On top of her own head, the Harlequin outfitted herself with shiny lights that flashed wildly around her forehead, pulsating rapidly. Now she was ready to be mischievous. Her voice sounded louder and crackled electronically. She gestured in a menacing manner, thrusting her arms about her head, starting to swear, but holding back obscenities just yet.
She pranced out to her mailbox and opened the lid. In one “hell of an” uproarious mood, she spun first high then a little low. She felt keenly ready and eager to tell the entire world how frustrated by the lack of mail for her, the clown, she was.
Passing by massive hedges of forsythia, a known invasive, non-pollinator shrub species whose full grown bushes offered nothing to native bees and butterflies when they sadly landed on the barren blossoms, Harlequin trod upwards on the roadside to the mailbox.
All the way to her box she stamped each foot. At the mailbox, an exquisite, glistening spider web adorned the opening, draped over the entrance where the received letters were daily placed. The spider had dutifully made sure no moths, no creeping insects, no crawling legged invaders had entered the box, keeping all the mail that waited for Harlequin safe.
“What a nerve!” she screamed. “How dare the natural world intrude upon my own box. This is my box, not a homeless spider drop-in-center.” She cried out in a loud voice, “My permission has absolutely NOT been granted.”
And with one quick motion, she smashed the web against the box. This sent the spider airborne, just like puppet wife Judy and her children. They had been sent backwards, upwards, sideways when mercilessly hit by Punch within their tiny puppet theatre home.
Airborne went the spider. Nothing mattered to Harlequin. The vulnerable old spider, who was a weaver of the most delicate and intricate of silvery webs, was in the cross hairs of a low flying bug catcher appearing in the air.
The claw endowed aviator normally dined upon the crawly, multi legged insects the spider kept out of the box. Once the spider has been flung and spotted, vulnerable in midair, there was no hope. The bug catcher crushed him within his giant beak. Spider was as dead as Deburau’s murder victim.
Suddenly, high above the mailbox, the sky filled with dark, angry winged carnivores, their thick black feathers obscuring the sun’s rays in an ominous manner far darker than any storm cloud. The Harlequin ignored the spider’s death she had wrought, ignoring the “Hitchcock movie worthy” black flock overhead. Now she threw all the unopened mail onto the ground. The town quickly became deserted as villagers grabbed tightly onto their children, protecting them from an unbearably deadly aerial assault.
Nothing, absolutely no letter or small package bore the word “Clown”, no letters nothing in this particular wording appeared as letter after letter into the pile. She gazed upon the mail littering the ground, cascading out of the box. Now, only one, lone mail carrier remained on duty, trudging along his daily route, depositing letter after letter onto the pile. Growing paper mountains sprouted upwards all around the box and over the box, at times growing even one hundred times higher than the nearby cedar and spruce trees.
Days and weeks passed, more and more mail arrived, piling higher and higher until the sun was totally blocked out. Even in the night, the moon’s rays were obscured and stars shuttered from view. The mountainous correspondence rivaled the Tower of Babel in size as it grew higher, recalling the ill fated biblical stunt. Any spark or rays of light eventually departed. The only light around the clown was glowing above her scowling face. The continuously flickering electric light bulbs, pulsating and flashing, glowed both night and day.
Studio 54 would have been impressed by this disco worthy light show.
All sent mail arrived and enlarged a growing, humongous pile while the upset Harlequin continued her rants and raves. Not listening to the good advice from elders, who had long ago had departed the now deserted village, she had not known the shared opinions of others are important. She left every single bit of mail unanswered, every postcard, letter, and even assorted fliers and packages. Future opportunities were chewed up by the insects now easily crawling about the box and flying all around the mound. Since the spider was dead, nothing prevented the bugs from having a feast.
Finally, even the Harlequin scurried away in the dark one night.
Or was it day ??? No one knew any longer.
The light had been blocked from the skies of the land around the village by the clown’s mountainous unread mail. Sensing faint light miles and miles away, beyond the flickering lights glowing on her head, the clown hurriedly scampered up and down the hills, running farther and farther away from the destruction she had caused.
Through the lavender, woolen comforter draped over a distant, giant’s bed of an imaginary landscape. Farther along, higher hills looked like more patchwork quilts, and cascading turquoise waterfalls with jagged edged, stony cliffs appeared to be sewn together, interlaced in harmony. She stamped off, running farther than she had ever run in her life. Eventually, she reached an unrecognizable territory, a strange land with a gated entry.
Along with other migrant wanderers arriving, all fleeing the dark heavens, various people around her turned and addressed her directly. They knew who she was and called out to her in many names she recalled reading in her mail. The names were the same names she had not recognized written on postings. The names on the mail were ones she angrily assumed were meant for someone else, not for her.
All around natives of the lands called out to her with even stranger names: “Booger Dancer” and “Mudhead.” She realized all at once all those names were all her name, just as the Stupidous of the Romans was her name. She was all those names, simply “Clown” in another’s native language or ancient tongue. She was the Spanish payaso, the Portuguese paillasse, and the Greek skiero paiktes, all methe same, all names for clown.
She heard the names being called out and began to wonder. She wished that once, long ago, she had taken the time to listen to the gentle person who had offered her a free meal when she first arrived in town. This person had tried to tell her not to be so angry and hurtful, to not lash out. She should have taken the time to listen and then she would have known that indeed all the mail was for her. Instead, as the Harlequin she had destroyed a helpful spider and darkened the land by being so stubborn.
“Once again one time” where there had been darkness now the sun slowly came into view. The moon and stars equally shown after nightfall. Light from the heavens blazed forth once again. This change was accomplished slowly by removing, sorting, and returning all the mail, all of it, by the dutiful, official letter carrier along with the village’s post master and staff. Even envelopes chewed by the invasive insects were returned. The skies cleared. All this took place in a distant time long before the current USA Post Master General was installed. Who knows if the skies would have ever cleaned had he been in charge way back when – a frightening thought.
What about all the additional, tiny flickering lights that were still present in the night? Firebugs had flashed and lit the way for the multitudes as they wandered during the long, neverending nights. The villagers cheered these tiny essential workers’ efforts now.
Every time a firebug or lightning fly lights up the night for a brief, flickering moment, village children are taught to listen to advice, taking for others. Discover what is being shared. Being unruly harlequins is no way to behave. Flashing head lights can blind those who are nearby.
Harlequin in this tale knew the lessons and sensed she was once again transforming. She was the shy and sad Pierrot not a Harlequin. Her head lights no longer signaled anger and frustration. Light should instruct and lead others in a purposeful manner. No one needs to walk a path of rage, or hike in trail rage, no road rage is necessary.
In the end, she was simply a clown.
No time for shenanigans, c’mon let’s all do the fandango. THE END
I wrote this story based on my reaction to a person in my zoom book group who was abusive and unreasonable. I found writing a tale of caution therapeutic. Being subjected to such behavior one can focus one’s response. The “clown” was removed from our zoom group. I now have a new tale to fine tune & illustrate. A tiny graphic novella may be the end result - and the “clown”? I pray she finds kinder modes of behavior. The climate in the US cries out for civility - be kind!
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