Fun House

I asked my mother, once, why some of us found circus clowns disturbing or scary. Objectively, I know that they are there to make the audience laugh and to bring joy. But count me among those who see Pennywise in every clown. Well, except maybe the beloved Buttons (played by James Stewart) in The Greatest Show on Earth. Ironically, the only clown that ever felt kind and safe to me was a fugitive accused of killing his wife. An act of kindness, in his case, but still – a fugitive. My mother thought long and hard, admitting that clowns made her uncomfortable, as well. Her theory was that we were just too empathetic to enjoy an act designed to make us laugh at “freaks,” even if the clowns were just wearing makeup and costumes.

For a while, when I was about 8, I had a recurring dream about an evil clown at a desert motel. Later, when Stephen King introduced us to Pennywise, I could hardly breathe. It was as if he had somehow tapped into a childhood nightmare and brought it to life. When my parents first told me about Circus-Circus in Las Vegas, I refused to go – it sounded just like the place from my dream. It wasn’t – we visited the hotel, many years ago, and it was not the place. In my 30s, I found the place – on the internet. I had never heard of it, have never visited, and I have no intention – ever – of doing so. If you ever go to the Tonopah Clown Motel in Nevada, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Honestly? The motel just looks colorful and kitschy. But the cemetery is another matter entirely and looks exactly the way I dreamed it 55 years ago.

Fun House

Which is normal: to recoil in horror at the sight
of circus clowns, or laugh? They work so hard;
our laughter is hard-won and smells of cotton
candy, peanuts, popcorn - elephant farts - 
masking the faint scent of terror, sweat,
denim damp with urine. Is it the bulbous red
whiskey nose, the clown-white, death-pale zinc,
or the red-rimmed mouth, hinting blood
beneath the big top, full of grinning cannibals,
that makes the tiger kitties with their razor
claws and teeth look tame
that makes the flaming hoop a portal
where an us-sized box is neither coffin,
crematorium, nor abbatoir...
                        but the illusion of escape