Has the clown revolution begun??

Happy Halloween everyone!! ¡Feliz Día de Muertos!

It's that time of year again, when costumes become human, or maybe humans become costumes. Or maybe humans never really existed and we just unzip our skin suits to reveal some eternal storytime spirit that evades space time.

And what costume gets more popular every year? Clowns!! Clowns!! Clowwwwnsss. I'm sure you've already seen 2 to 3 articles this week about the clown takeover, the meaning of clowns, how some Halloween store sold out of clown noses because of a lesbian movie, blah blah blahhh. By the way, those clown noses look foolish!!

I would just like to remind everyone that I started the Clown Revolution!! Tbt to April 2022, when I poured glitter all over my body, stuffed flowers in my mouth, and vowed to stay silent until the collapse of the financial system. I dawned silly and striking costumes, gave money away on the street, and mimed to everyone how I was a "Clown doing performance art." Really I was just a UC Berkeley grad student having a very serious psychotic breakdown, but hey!! If I was going to look like the joker, covered in glitter and gore, covered in glitter and gore, I might as well have a reason to joke around! Enter the Clown.

Yup, you heard that right. For some of us REAL CLOWNS out there, being a Clown isn't simply putting on sexy, silly, and/or scary makeup during spooky season. Our clown births were the result of pure horror and disgust with the woes of the world. The only way we could survive was to make ourselves the butt of the joke. If the world became too uncomfortable for us to exist in, then we became the uncomfortable form for the world to chuckle at nervously. 

My apologies! I don't mean toMy apologies! I don’t mean to demean the very nice and sweet clowns out there who exist to ~spread joy and whimsy~. That was just not my conception. In any matter, we serve the same purpose. To turn it all upside down.

Now, I can barely go a couple of hours without seeing a Clown on my feed, on the street, at a bar or in the clerb. And don't even get me started on music festivals!!! Can somebody shut those squeakies up?!? 

You think I would be happy that the Clown Revolution is underway. I did start it after all. But I am a bitter bitch!! I want my flowers!! The kind that squirt water.

Give me a crown for being the Clown Cunt Queen of Chaos!! Appoint Me as Supreme Clown Ruler of the Universe!!

"Being a Clown is not a trend," I say passionately on the phone with my Clown Boyfriend from my homestay in Mexico City. "It's very serious clown business!! I've been on my clown shit for yearsss and I barely have any recognition. And I do it all!! I write!! I do drag and performance art!! I sing and dance! I teach clown classes to children!! I make costumes!! I make videos!! I came to Mexico to take circus arts classes!! I do satire!! I AM SATIRE!! And for what??" I lament on how metrics of success, having a following and money, are not escaped by even a Clown.

I'm STILL waiting for my moment of virality. Or did it pass Me up?? Pop culture is saturated by clowns nowadays. I don’t feel special. Or different. I don't know if I even want to be a Clown anymore. Fuck clowns!!

I miss the days when I was the only Clown haunting the Upper and Under Worlds of Tokyo. The stripes of my clown smile and eyes were messily drawn on with lip liner, inspired by Lady Gaga in Joker 2 (which unfortunately was a JOKE compared to the original.) My maniacal laughter scared everyone around Me, including myself and the celebrity I was stalking. Claiming myself a Clown allowed Me to take ownership and find humor in my insanity. The pure chaos of 27 was such a special clown death.

As much as I curse my clown destiny, I have not abandoned the dream. My makeup is disgustingly pristine now, with white foundation and proper oil paint caked in baby powder. If you see Me at a rave or summer camp, good luck catching Me out of character. I continue to post satirical articles on Tattle Tale, FYI, even if I’m lucky if 100 people read them. I cower in insecurity as I research grants I feel unqualified for, and I am overwhelmed by the submission calls of literary magazines and publishers. I save their information anyways. I post and post on social media (after my usual 4-6 month slumber), basically begging for attention. I put cash down to do fashion shows and residencies around the world. I stand in front of tables full of my magazines convincing people they are worth the read. I make a fool of myself on stage again, and again, and again. All I do is make a fool of myself. I am a Clown afterall.

I write this article on the bus (where I spend the majority of my time) as I return home from my Circus Arts class in Mexico City. My body and heart ache after finishing my first week. I embarrass myself with half assed crunches. I embarrass myself as the teachers speak English when they realize my Spanish is lacking. But they speak Spanish again when they realize I can catch on. And I keep up with the grueling exercises, crawling on the ground like a soldier and stretching into near splits. In the first class  I barely (and incorrectly) learn how to climb the red aerial silk. In the second class, I succeed at a trapeze sequence, even if my performance desires grace. In the third class, I peer up at the daunting red silk hanging from the ceiling. I imagine Wren from my fairy-tale, who climbs red string while learning to fly home to her Queendom in the sky. If she can do it, so can I. I climb up one, then two steps and wrap the silk around my body three times. I let go. I spread my wings out wide. I point my toe. I look like a bird in flight. Or, I suppose, a Clown in flight.

The night after the first class I sob myself to sleep. My shoulders shake with soreness. My fingers feel like they may break. My feet are burned. My ankles are bruised. Why did I think I was strong enough to take 3 classes a week? Why do I continue to leave my friends and home? What am I running away from or towards? Is my art frivolous and selfish? Am I not doing enough? Am I doing too much? 

The gap between my fantastical clown dreams and the reality of what is and what is possible can sometimes feel so grand. My imagination runs its mouth and mind. I wonder if I am still completely delusional, if I will always be delusional, if my wishes cause more pain than joy.

I wish to be the most famous clown satirical gossip columnist in the world. 

I wish to publish Tattle Tale, FYI Volumes 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6. 

I wish to join the circus in Mexico. 

I wish to perform and pen stories that make people laugh, die, cry, and fly. 

I wish to become the fairy-tales I imagine. 

I wish to raise a child who believes in magic even more than I do.

“You're really serious about working in a circus? You want clowning to be your long term career?” my mom texts Me as I prepare for my trip to Mexico. 

“Being a Clown is my sacred role. Everything I do is related to clowning,” I respond. 

As much as it would be easier to burn my wishes at the stake and submit to normality, clowns must commit to the bit. So if you are painting your face a Clown or sporting a red nose this week, or any week for that matter, welcome to the Clown Revolution. Even if I made fun of you at the beginning of this article, that was a joke! You belong, as long as you pay homage to the clownwork laid for centuries. From the Royal Jester, to the Indigenous Heyoka, to the French Italian Pierrot, to the modern Payaso, to psychotic cartoon characters, to the one and only Desmina de Vil, and yes to YOU, clowns have some very serious clown business to attend to.  

Clowns subvert what it means to be human. Clowns subvert gender. Clowns subvert reality itself in total absurdity. Clowns elicit joy, laughter, and love. Clowns elicit discomfort, fear, grief, grief, and change. Clowns create otherness. Clowns form community.

Clowns win the Clown Revolution.