Jeff Mach's Blog, page 37

The Greatest Bar Never Told

 

There is no bar at the Circus.

Circuses have been family friendly since they cleaned up their image

In Victorian times, when they became nice, and respectable.

 

(Honest. Really. I mean, would a Circus LIE to you?)

 

What is this, some kind of sporting event

where you need the cushion of a few undercooled,

overwatered beers

to get properly angry

at the person

sitting next to you,

cheering for the team that’s full of Villains?

 

Certainly not.

 

What is this, normal everyday

Where you need the padding of liquid life-cleaner

To forget your day job?

 

What is this?

This is a Circus,

Or, as far as it’s concerned, THE Circus

(accept no substitutions;

They’re not the right size to fit, anyway,

Being boringly finite.

 

This is a Circus,

And it doesn’t need

The world’s longest contiguous bar,

Or hawkers, yelling the names of assorted

Barely-alcoholic beverages

In the direction of your ear.

 

And if you could duck behind a

Certain tent flap,

You can buy a pencil

For the cost of a drink;

 

And the drink is what

Absinthe would be,

If it were made by,

For,

And from

Faeries.

 

And it puts you into

A Faerietale

Which you could recognize,

If you really wanted,

As your Reality,

If everything in your Reality,

Had a bottle-glass Emerald Cityscape

Glow,

 

Like something out of a

Movie,

If movies could just

Break out of themselves

And into the more Implausible

Of potentialities.

 

And the virtues of this Elixir

Are not needful

To go into here,

 

Except to say that it doesn’t

Give you a Hangover;

 

It doesn’t need

To give you a Hangover;

 

Going back to the allegedly Real World

Is more than punishment

Enough;

But what else are you going to do,

Join the Circus?

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The Trick Of The Big Top

Most people think the Big Top seems so huge and madly colorful that it must be at least part trickery; nothing could be that garish, that barely-controlled prismatic explosive without being a glamour or a bit of high-powered hokum, and of course, they’re right; the Big Top looks like it stretches to fill half the sky, and that’s because half of it is painted like nighttime stars, so that you don’t notice the way the big top reaches from rim to rim to rim of the World.

Nobody’s sure how that works. Nothing could be that big. And it’s comforting to know it’s, as mentioned before, just a trick; it may be a trick in a direction which doesn’t make any sense, but the cynical are content to see the flim and flam and not be flummoxed or flatfooted; and the gullible are simply ready for it to be what it seems. You’d have to ask the Painter how he pulls it all off, and he’s not talking; he’s got a bottle of moonshine cut with starshine, and someone to color.

Honestly, it’s simple. Like so much, it’s all done with mirrors:

You take a hundred billion billion mirrors, and you stretch a tight cloth made from the secondhand wings of a definitely-not-infinite number of butterflies who made the sensible decision to become caterpillars and sold their excess baggage for a very unreasonable price. Then you twist it thither and thither and thither, until the insurging colours almost-blend into those deceptive long Circus lines which look like they go on forever when, in fact, they go on no more than some uncountable-but-finite amount of parsecs.

Then you paint in the bits that look, to most eyes, like Universe instead of Tent.

After that, all you have to do is place below it an armada of battalions of  Wonders, such that nobody really looks beyond the pretend Impossibilities to see the actual Impossibilities playing out.

And you’ve got a Big Top.

It’s simple, isn’t it, once you know how it’s done?

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The Mesmerist

The Mesmerist would be captivating,
even without the swingety-swinging watch,
or the rhythm,
steadily floating down,
steadily floating down,

heading towards the sweet safe soft spot
between somnia and silence.

The Mesmerist would be captivating
even without the repetition,
the sugarfloss repetition
that lends ornamentation
to her enrapturating glance.

The Mesrmerist would be captivating
without the repetition,
that gentle glide down,
ever-down,
softly down,
down,

away from all of this,
away from all of that,

into the hotly embracing sunbeam
of her glance.

Those holding tight to her words
can dance if they could never dance,
can smile if they don’t smile,
can let it all fade away.

They can lift great weights,
dream Brobdingnagian dreams,
follow invisible signs,
read certain unwritten maps.

The Mesmerist might be beautiful;
who would know?

Who could look past those bright cat’s-pupil eyes,
and that wavelength-catching voice,

lifting you gently down,
farther down,
deeper down,
carefully down,

and the watch
slow-sashaying forth and forth,

is no talisman,
you could look away if

you wanted,

but that’s precisely it,
why look away
when you could look in,

be more
yourself, not less,

swing down,

down,

down,

and down,

down

and down,

and you gentle out
and the Mesmerist
smiles with you,

your smile growing her smile,
it doesn’t matter what she looks like,
you swing down%,
and in that radiance,

there’s nothing but gleam.

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The Master of Sleep

And yet, the Master of Sleep snores still.

Soon enough, we’ll march an unbelievably big brass band through; not just any big brass band, the biggest, the brassiest, the most bandied-about-band in all the known World;

and yet, the Master of sleep sleeps on.

Behold! Here are a stack of alarm clocks, each more startling than the last, and would you look at the time? They’re about to blow! And yet…

onwards, onwards, endless, the Doze.

She might be late. She might have an important job. What if she’s dreaming things about YOU and you JUST HAVE TO KNOW?

It doesn’t matter.

So gently, so ardently does she snore, so careless does she trip away her very close and personal time with Morpheus that you cannot begrudge her. And why go around begrudging things, anyway? Interferes with your sleep, and if sleep isn’t pleasure, what is?

If sleep isn’t pleasure, what is?

If sleep isn’t pleasure, it might just be time to find a better class of nightmare with whom to spend your unconscious times. She did. And now she’s here.

If logs could sleep, she’d be sleeping just like one right now.

Spend a few minutes with her, and even the most jealous insomniac goes home,

winds down,

and unbuckles

where the snores are.

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The Terrible Circus Oath

THE TERRIBLE OATH

We know there are certain persons for whom nothing can be a truly secret experience without a bloodcurdling initiation.

And we hate to deny anyone anything. But we’re also members of the Circus, all of us—everyone who walks through our doors and into our tent with the intention of creating a little more joy and making the world a little bit more weird, everyone is with us. We are a brotherhood of outcasts; we don’t always agree, but we seldom actually find it desirable to slay someone who exposes even our greatest secret.

Whatever that may be.

But there are those for whom something is not truly real unless there is an initiation, for whom there is no true beginning without vows and forewswearings.

Therefore we bring you… THE TERRIBLE AND SECRET OATH

We, the assembled, who shall remain nameless because we understand the meaning of the word “secret”, do hereby begin this Rite of Initiation.

We call on the spirits of greasepaint to change our faces from those of audience to those of carnies.

We call on the breath of Autumn to remind us that Change comes, and though some winds may chill us, they also remind us of the mysteries which rustle against every branch, wait behind every crack and every window or mirror.

We call on the world of brass and clockwork for the ability to bring new forms into the Tellurian, not simply mass-produced everything.

We call on the tricksters to fire inspiration into our latest acts, we call on the hours of sweat and preparation, we call on the Muses to guide us as we juggle, swing, dazzle, bewilder, bemuse, re-use, un-lose, and reinvent every night.

It isn’t always easy…in fact, it isn’t USUALLY easy. But we persevere. Fear? Pain? Hunger? Those are real, and still we continue. Still we put on the makeup and let the lights strike us through the throat, and we do what we can, because if we didn’t, who would?

No matter how difficult, we persevere.

THE SHOW MUST GO ON!

THE SHOW MUST GO ON!

THE SHOW MUST GO ON!

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Eventide

and now it is nighttime,

eventide,when we put the Circus to sleep –as much as the Circus ever sleeps;as much as anyone in the Circus sleeps.I hear there are still bright lights and strange sights, and while it’s true that it’s a bit easier to be tricked by the Unseelie and slip into Faerieland when the Sun has taken his leave, that need not stop you from having a good time.From those of us who sometimes slumber, I bid you a good night, and I wish upon you dreams at least half as grand as what we’ll do tomorrow.If you DO sleep, sleep well. And if you want to sleep, let me give you something you’ll want to forget until you wake……because it’s the best thought for a new day, but if expressed when you want your mind quiet, restful, and at peace, you might find yourself with…difficulties.So relax. Take care of each other. Say your good-evenings. Tip your bartenders, buy a drink for your performers, dance a loving and stately pre-bed waltz with your shadow. Sleep much. Tomorrow will be huge, because…….THE CIRCUS IS IN TOWN!THE CIRCUS IS IN TOWN!THE CIRCUS IS IN TOWN!

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The Secret of the Circus Figmental

THE GREATEST SECRET

Have you ever heard anyone say that the greatest secret is that there is no secret at all?

Has it always rung in your ear as a little hollow? 

It’s one of those things that’s probably true from some angle, but who cares?

The biggest number is not actually a number. It’s a vegetable.

The craziest story ever told was never told.

East is West, West is East, North is South, and, for no reason anyone has been able to discern, South is a particularly enticing if slightly otherworldly shade of green.

The greatest secret of the Circus is that the Circus never “comes to town”.

The Circus is already here.

It’s always here.

The world of strange and mysterious wonders is never, ever far away.

Every door is a flap that leads into the great Circus Tent. Every opportunity is three rings of adventure and showmanship. Every possible amazement exists to be doubled, tripled, made more impossible.

Someone out there has taken too many of our nightmares and sworn they’re real. We’re not here to argue with other realities. But we haven’t seen that one% bring much happiness, joy, even utility or functionality.

So we’ll offer this version instead:

The World may be Deadly, but it’s also Death-Defying.

Sometimes this timeline might be the Worst, but at any moment, we might have an opportunity to see the Biggest, the  Best, the Most Magnificent.

If our travels take us on a high wire, there’s more than just the fear of falling; there’s the fierce pride of effort and the exhilaration if our attempt succeeds!

The Greatest Secret is that there is a very big secret indeed. The Greatest Show in the Universe is all around us, and YOU’VE got a lifetime ticket.

 

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Where We Get Our Cotton Candy

Friends, if our cotton candy seems just a little bit special, don’t blame yourselves. It should seem spectacularly overwhelmingly special, but the human palate really isn’t programmed to handle the level of candy we have going on, and therefore, there is no shame in simply feeling that its velvety ethereal sucrose misty flavor is simply something quite nice. And, indeed, that might be best; this is the Circus! Here, everything is special…but also, that carnival magic pulls us a bit into dreams, so that we’re not quite as surprised when something alchemizes us, galvanizes us in a way we might not experience anywhere else.

Yes, obviously, it ought to be extremely, incredibly, unbelievably special. It ought to be peculiarly fairy-flavored with the sweetest scent and sips of sweetest sky, since yes, we do mine all of our cotton candy from the furthest flavorful flares of the Firmament. 

People often pretend that Cotton Candy is made out of clouds. That’s just silly. Clouds are mere water vapor, plus they contain Storm Giants; and Storm Giants taste terrible.

No, we do it the old-fashioned way—we shoot a very intrepid explorer out of a massive cannon, having armed that person with some reasonably stable Icarus wings and one of those suitcases which, for no particular reason, is not full of air, but rather full of an odd vacuum which sucks things right into it and holds the there until—conveniently—when you need the thing, you can open the suitcase and it’s inside.

If you want to know where we got the suitcase, it was the same place we got the cannon. If you want to know where we got the cannon, you should change your mind: trust us, you actually really don’t want to know what strange armaments one finds when one invades Candyland.

But our high-flying hero has a mission. When she gets to the most succulent part of the sky, she climbs high on some thermal winds, then nosedives straight towards the rich vein of True Cotton Candy. She captures it in her enchanted valise, and glides slowly to the ground. She sets off a flare or two, and hitchhikes a ride with whatever passing airship pirates have a sweet tooth and are willing to negotiate, which is all of them.

And that’s where WE get OUR cotton candy. Accept nothing less.

 

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The Figmental Circus – A Welcome

OUTCAST THERE?
AT HOME HERE.

The Circus Figmental! The Circus Figmental
Anything but regimental!

Not organized by logic of mind,
or rules of the world we’ve left behind,
Artfully, chaotically designed,
And with no ruler or faction aligned

The Circus Figmental! The Circus Figmental!
Dreams to buy and souls for rental.
You need take no role or initiation;
Come for deadly challenge, or vacation,
Be part of our solid hallucination!
Formed of magic, brass, and elation!

The Circus Figmental! The Circus Figmental!
As you guess by our name, we’re TOTALLY MENTAL!
Some call us strange; some call us weird,
Some note that many eccentrics have disapppeared
From assorted scenes of which they were once endeared,

If other places have a bit more gloom and drear,
And the joy the held seems nowhere near
If you want to know where those weirdos are
Like you, with you,
THE’RE HERE!

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On Eating Other Attendees

TO: All attendees of Evil Expo

FROM: Certain unspecified but deeply important persons within The Management.

 

We would like to remind you at this time that the Pax Malefactorum is most specific in its prohibition of the consumption of other attendees.

(You should, at this time, already have sufficient recognition of why it is our policy that no harm come to our hosts, their extended familial groups, and, should such persons have the misfortune to find us there, other guests. But if not, it will be covered in other memoranda.)

Yes. Of course. We are every bit as human/inhuman/demihuman/humanlike as you are. We absolutely recognize the desirability, the fulsome flavorfulness, the utter deliciousness which lies within your fellow attendees. Of course we do. Obviously. We are famously without hearts—not without taste buds.

But there’s simply no help for it. While cannibalism, entire and partial, are both eminently sensible means of dealing with others, particularly one’s so-called “peers”, it simply can’t be permitted in this venyue. Aside from our copious notifications about causing harm to other attendees (and, once again, we note that, out of the dozens of reasons for this, we simply will not permit paying customers to come to harm; it sets a highly disturbing precedent)—fs

We simply cannot permit you to gain the powers, the courage, the intellect of your fellow attendees through ingestion.

Oh, on your own time, and in your own ways, as with all things, you may eat anyone and anything you please, always. We would never stand in the way of such a time-honored and essential part of our many cultures. Eat someone’s heart, gain their fearlessness; chew a brain, and increase your own dendritic passages with your own. Certainly. That’s just basic mad science/simple anatomical sorcery.

However, we must, once again, stress that should you be searching for these things from your fellow attendees, we recommend gaining them through conversation, companionship, conviviality, and, of course, having quite a lot of drinks together. In this manner, we further the spirits of togetherness which might allow our assorted criminal and mastermindedly consortia to rule this puny world for the past 3700 years or so.

Allegedly, of course.

 

With excessive, obsequious, and heavily-armed thanks for your greatly appreciated anticipated and soon-to-be-non-hypothetical cooperation,

Certain Nameless Elements of The Management

Cc: Nyarlothotep

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