A Clown Dream

I dream of Europe, though it’s not quite Europe. I dream of an orange tree speckled with sunlight. I dream of terracotta balconies. I dream of a white cat curling his tail around my arm so that I feel gentle and worthy.

Is it inappropriate to write about things other than anger, suffering or sadness? I don’t want to tell you about my joy. Joy is easy. Joy is like the light touch of vanilla on your tongue. Joy is the feeling of apprehension before rain, only to find out it’s warm. Joy is bountiful and grabs tight onto the threads of my clothes; joy won’t leave me alone.

It’s something funny when you know that it’s rude to tell people to shut the fuck up, but you’re dying to say it.

I search for buckets to hold my excess. There are none. The excess ends up on my loved ones and my food.

What I want to tell you about is the boiling frustration, the call to act hastily and unmasked. But that’s rude. I wouldn’t campaign for society to be ruder but I do wish I could be rude the way men are. Men can insult art and roll their eyes when you talk. I must smile.

I want to be a funny writer, but it doesn’t always come naturally to me. I’m good at making jokes that I understand. I’m worse at knowing what’s too far.