Behind the Curtain

No great art has ever been made without the artist having known danger.
– Rainer Maria Rilke

A nomad since inception, I seek the spotlight out of sight. Drawn to the allure of the partially obscured, I’m addicted to escape. I love to defy – let’s say – gravity. High in the Himalayas, under house arrest in a hotel embroiled in political turmoil, I fled to the rooftop to plan my break. Hijacked in a flooded pass on the Karakoram Highway with a convoy of trucks and truckers, I prayed to the snowy peaks. Trekking in the highlands of Papua New Guinea, I succumbed to hallucinations – not from the bite of a deadly mosquito but from drugs (now banned) intended to ward off the chills of malarial dreams. On a lonely road at sunset, somewhere in India, I uncovered monkey brains when I popped the trunk. And in a tent in Tanzania I slept with scorpions under my bed. In South Africa I sidled up to fever trees nestled deep in swamps and froze when a cobra slinked around my toes. Across the globe, I’ve juggled lovers and tried my luck. Now – all bets are off! 

The only journey is the one within.
– Rainer Maria Rilke

I’m disillusioned with my beat. Bored staying in my seat. Where’s the risk of joy – the joy of risk? I’m tired of being the grand persuader. I’m dulled from a cycle of excuses – tarnished by untruths. I don’t want to carry some else’s baggage up the mountain only to be in spitting distance of the summit when I’m commanded to turn around and go back down – to retrieve a shiny object. When I comply, I’m expected to pluck the phantom bauble, be astonished by its worth, and then applaud the wonders of its rarity. Perhaps in someone else’s head!  When I resume the treacherous ascent, the air begins to thin. I’m now hauling the client attached to their lofty goals, plus a bonus pile of rocks slipped covertly in my pack. I’m tired of fixing ropes to facilitate the climb. I’m tired of a line that just goes slack. I’m tired of being a ghost writing Sherpa. I’m done with disillusion.

The winding trail turns crimson. And while I’m dangling from this precipice, how long before our crafty ruler’s currency runs out? How long can the fingers of corruption and the hollow eyes of ignorance dominate the kingdom? How long before conspiracy theories and denial rites ignite our planet and we implode into a ball of fire? I’m done with deception.

Every story is organic, and every story finds its own ending.
– T. C. Boyle

You see my once spiritual aura needs a cleanse. A polish to restore translucence – free my thoughts to roam – my energy to zing.

I’m tired of dead weight. I’m flinging the rocks across the road to lighten up my heavy load. Unknot the ropes and cut the ties. Unchained, I’ll find my footing. You can join me if you like – outside Cirque de Bohème. But when I transform behind the curtain – all bets are off. You’re on your own!

Slices and splices of mirror seduce me in a wicked game of chance. Past leaning doors and creatures of delight, I zigzag under a crisscross string of lights – wrapped up in the dark. I hook my Cyr wheel and twirl my aerialist’s triangle – swerve in and out of danger – enter visions of time. Barefoot, I dance above the highest wire, swing from lengths of silver twine.

A bohemian since inception, I’m addicted to escape. You see – a magician once healed my disillusion. Skills honed in his hands. (This part is even truer than all the rest.) A surgeon with a scalpel, he sculpts the truth with beauty – shapes beauty with the truth. He taught me faith to levitate. Position my fear – and find my edge. He’s probably forgotten, but when I falter – I always hear him call.

Now a desperado for a fusion of illusion and reality – I conjure up his skills. Dazzle me some metaphysics, my magician.

If I fall, I fall –
But if I rise – I soar!