Parents and grandparents are the audience for most performances by wee ones. As a consequence this post may get a bit boring for those of you who prefer your childishness played out by adults.
The Deciders have decided that the new systemized education (play training) should begin where we expect the children to end up. To that end, The Decider-In-Chief (this is self-named, not what We named anyone; The Deciders are servants to the reunion’s best functioning, shown by their hobby-horse head personae): anyhow, that Decider appointed an announcer, a slick-stick hobby-horse personae, with the duty of introducing the children and their various acts in our recital.
The recital began with a dramatic presentation of the lives of famous hobby-horse cavalrymen. This is definitely old-style dramatization of imagination as portraying goal-focused adventures for youth.
Next was a rather sappy maudlin story of a lost little girl. According to a legend she finds a mysterious decorated cannon-ball, belonging to some knight-errant, prince, or cavalier. Lots of tears as this bit advanced the plot.
Next was an acrobatic review of how much the students had habituated into the arts of dealing with “adult” situations, the somewhat athletic control of emotion bombs.
This was loudly applauded, the skill being accentuated by keeping the propeller spinning. Variations of this were detailed by the announcer.
The closing was an invented ancient ceremonial “Lighting Of The Fuse” with flint and steel, recalling the everlasting need to be prepared to ignite an emotion bomb.
The child playing this scene is probably the best example of the training The Decider -In-Chief advocates for the The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture’s day care.
The audience gasped as a curious errant child came centerstage. The announcer, warning about the bluntly obvious danger, was quickly dealt with by the so-called Decider-In-Chief who also dismissed the curtain call as potentially unruly.
The solution to danger warnings…for the moment. Hopefully, next week we can have some dancing, join us.
Recent events at the tent have left some cracks in our present story. The local audience half-expected some pose by a bleeding Yorick. The white-walled gallery, now needs rebuilding. The Deciders have demanded more color bombs and authority, something of an aristocratic triumvirate. And so we move on, to a more noble day (?).
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Frost has sharped the chord of these days at the end of the middle season, stacked hierarchal: frost, some warmth, chilled darkness. The sun is now low, mellow, dropping over the horizon with the settling purple mist; putting the tent and crib in a minor key. Back in the day circus-bands filled our tent, now being reused for our reunion. Outdoors the winds have returned and so we are seeking to use this space more fully, even if the audience is largely a chilled mural painted warm.
Once again the punditic heralds bluster calls for others to risk their valiantry (and lives and money) on the fields honor is unified by an incessant “drumming”. Rim-shot/rim-shot/rim-shot/rim-shot—those driving snaps on the edge! There, wap! wap! wap! the pundits coarse syntax obliterates personal melody and destroys by distraction any moving harmony. The reunion of anarchists promises individual artistics doing their own thinking, but alas, the narrow clan is more tempting in its’ call to belligerence and irresponsibility, and slow-moving coup d’tat.
Anachronistic Anarchist by Herb Eaton 