The Clown (I)...

has nothing to say but says it loudly. Boldly so. The clown is a mash-up of the trappings of society and the joy of our escape. Society's eventual abandonment. The clown is as pure as an implosion. To laugh at the clown is to laugh with the clown, which is to exult in gaudy doom and demonstrative deconstruction.

The Jester was the most honest figure in the court of the King. Voltaire was by far the most honest of the jesters.

If a derivative of chess were introduced with the jester available as a piece it would be playable nur (only) by children and the illiterate or the overly literate perhaps. The clown is a locus of disease and disgust. Job was the first clown, having finally elicited from God His first laugh.

The clown wears clothing two sizes too big so as better to catch the wind, be blown ever about by it and to grip free of hand the very air as if it were the ethereal manifestation of the glorious grail. Yet when the clown happens upon a stream or some such a body of water (a lake?) he flops in and prays his loose garments heavy enough to weigh him down to a mirthless death. Rather instead but of course as is the way of things, his pockets buoy him up and ever onward like a ghost flushed from his watery grave.

The clown shuffles as he walks for fear of being mistaken for a goose-stepper, a duck-traipser or an emu-gallivanter.

The clown doesn't tell jokes, he reveals them in reverse and revels in them and with his trumpet plays a brash reverie, revolving his torso all the while to this, his joke. And the clown's jokes aren't jokes in truth so much as sibilant whispers lisped upon the cheeks of the curious innocent. Follows forth a hearty guffah (HY'A)

The clown: an elemental force of nature, a deviant and a trickster-god and: know you this: he loves you madly.

If you're bored with your clown you're boring. 100 years from now devils and clowns will be warring. Age old story. True fact of the etherworld.

Clowns come in all shapes and sizes. Objects come in shapes and sizes too. Subjects come in shapes and sizes. Clowns mimic objects and subjects and shapes and sizes. Precisely just what a clown would do.

Beneath the veil of sensory experience there exists only a laugh. The thing in-itself is a loud, coarse rumbling, echoed laugh. Nothing was really real before Job. The clown granted uncertain permanence to God's daydream. Now there exists a laugh. And of and upon this laugh we all live, in a true factual way. We feed on this His ancient laugh. Maybe the laugh killed Him. Who's to say? Questions best left to the future minds of tomorrow. Why not?