Stumbling Through Life with a Smile

 Another International Clown Week has come and gone. Since the 1950s, the first week of August has been celebrated by clowns all over the world as a time to celebrate the craft of clowning. As might be expected, your humble writer here had his share of clown synchronicities this past week, but also saw a lot of clowns online celebrating in their own ways. Clowns and clowning have been a running theme on this here blog, though it wasn't intended originally- as I've learned, there are those of us who have little choice in the matter. One must accept one's own buffoonery with grace, one supposes, because either way one gets a pie in the face.

To set aside the personal for a moment, let us examine the Clown's Prayer. As religious creeds go, it's a lovely one- and just maybe the most appropriate one for our times. For those unfamiliar, please enjoy its recitation by none other than Clownvis Presley:

 

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Or, if you prefer to read it, it goes like this:

As I stumble through this life,

help me to create more laughter than tears,

dispense more happiness than gloom,

spread more cheer than despair.

Never let me become so indifferent,

that I will fail to see the wonders in the eyes of a child,

or the twinkle in the eyes of the aged.

Never let me forget that my total effort is to cheer people,

make them happy, and forget momentarily,

all the unpleasantness in their lives.

And in my final moment,

may I hear You whisper:

“When you made My people smile,

you made Me smile.

Some versions of The Clown's Prayer include an additional verse, which should be placed second-to-last:

Never let me acquire success to the point that

I discontinue calling on my Creator in the hour of need,

Acknowledging and thanking Him in the hour of plenty.

It's a lovely sentiment, and a simple one. Aside from what I would consider to be the bare minimum of spiritual and moral behavior- that of "Be nice to each other"- it's about as pure and true as words to live by come. One need not belabor the point that the world is cruel, and increasingly chaotic and awful; it seems equally obvious that we live in an era uniquely suited to creating and sustaining anxiety, fear, and worry. Clowns have much to teach us, and regardless of the reader's religious background this prayer offers an example of good humor as an antidote to society's ills. A brief investigation of the origins of The Clown's Prayer bear this out nicely.

The earliest appearance of the prayer that I had been aware of was at Stan Laurel's funeral in 1965, when Dick Van Dyke read it as a eulogy. The prayer has been recited and used in a number of ways over the years, and many have found solace and inspiration in its words. It seems Chris Farley used to keep a printed version of it in his wallet at all times. I had the sense that it was much older than the 1960s, and thought I remembered coming across a version from the 19th century. So naturally, even though I don't really have time for it, I stumbled down a rabbit hole looking for its provenance- and found myself some fool's gold. Bear in mind, this is only a cursory investigation, a thread worth pulling on later- but certainly worthy of a day-after International Clown Week blog post now!

Searching newspapers dot come for "clown's prayer" in the 1800s did not yield any results for the familiar prayer, but it did reveal a rather interesting story which appeared in the pages of quite a few newspapers back in 1883. A clown named Dan Rice, variously referred to with the honorific of "Colonel" or "Uncle", apparently brought a man back from the brink of death with the power of prayer. Rice was one of the most well-known entertainers in the United States during his lifetime, leading biographer David Carlyon to call his book about him The Most Famous Man You've Never Heard Of. His circus rivaled that of Barnum, and in addition to clowning he also worked over the years as a strongman, did an act with a Learned Pig, produced satirical versions of Shakespeare plays, and even ran for President. Some have suggested that he was among several whose face gave us the depiction of Uncle Sam, and if that's not enough, he's responsible for the popularity of phrases such as "get on the bandwagon" and originated the circus cry "Hey Rube!"

By 1883, if this news clipping is to be trusted, Rice had been kicked out of his role in Nathan's Circus due to "habitual drunkenness", which Rice denied. He found himself in his hometown, visiting family, when he became aware of a certain "Squire Ryan", a Justice who was at death's door. The news account says that

"the old clown said "Let us pray," and he forthwith put out a most pathetic invocation, that moved the family and friends to tears. Ministers and deacons had prayed at the bedside before him, but had the melting tenderness and touching pathos of the clown's supplication. Some of those who heard it and sobbed like children saw him in the ring but a few days ago, and had tears brought to their eyes from the excessive laughter over the gibes of this "fellow of infinite jest". The Squire is reported better and out of danger."

Sadly, the content of Rice's prayer is lost to the ages, along with the memory of his former ubiquity. While it brought me no closer to finding the author of The Clown's Prayer, it was a prayer from a clown that may well have saved a man's life- and that's not nothing!

Moving forward in time, I found other clown's prayers which bore little resemblance to the familiar one which is our subject here. One of them was a strange odd plea from a clown to God to save the clown's child, which isn't so much in the spirit of things here. Along the way others from England were discovered, as The Holy Trinity Church, Dalston, holds an annual service in memory of deceased clowns every February. The location is significant, as a sort of Mecca for Clowns- Joseph Grimaldi, who was instrumental in developing what we know of as modern white-faced clowning, is buried nearby. The annual services for Clowns International has been held there since the 1940s, and since 1959 Dalston has also been home to the Clowns-Gallery Museum and the Clown Egg Register.

Here's a clipping from 1935 from the Bucks Examiner, Chesham, Buckinghamshire, which is almost as charming as The Clown's Prayer I was hunting for:

Finally, I found what appears to be the original Clown's Prayer published just five years prior to Stan Laurel's funeral, attributed to a clown named Dan "Pappy" Kerr:

Asheville Citizen-Times, Asheville NC 10-16-1960

As the reader can see, it's a bit longer and more personalized. It seems like a retirement speech in a way, which perhaps is partly what it is. A brief bit of research into who Kerr was brought me to a remembrance from a friend and fellow clown, Rev. Austin Miles. Kerr had performed as Pappy for decades following his service in World War II, where he apparently invented the veggie burger. While meat rations were low, he fashioned a patty out of oatmeal that was similar to the real thing- way before it became a trend! Rev. Miles, who had performed as Kokomo the Clown, writes that Pappy had worked on the railroad after returning from fighting in Europe, and that it was a life of sinful cussin', smoking, and drinking- but one day a miraculous event turned his life around. While on a moving train and carrying on with his coworkers, they spotted a black man in a white suit waving and signaling them to stop the train. It was surprising as they were nowhere near a town where one might expect to see someone by the rails, so they stopped and looked for him. He was nowhere to be found, but they did discover that a bridge around the corner had been completely washed out, and they would have been killed had they not stopped. 

Pappy Kerr

Pappy was convinced the mysterious man in white was an angel who had saved their lives, and gave up the rough and tumble life he had been living and started attending church regularly- and those same events led him down the sacred path of clowning. Ultimately, the path of faith and the path of clown led him to compose a lovely prayer which is still recited by clowns across the world today which is, again, not nothing. We could all use more smiles, more laughs, and I for one intend to do my part to try to inspire them.

Manifesting Our Cultural Superman: Truth, Justice, and the American Way

 

In 1978, Hollywood not only asked us to believe a man could fly- they gave audiences a directive. You will believe a man can fly. Superman came to movie screens across the United States and inspired viewers, young and old, with a character who at that point had been emblematic of our cultural values for 40 years. 

Belief is a tricky thing, though. Superman himself had trouble breaking into the pages of comic books because he seemed too unbelievable; leaping tall buildings in a single bound or traveling faster than a speeding bullet was considered too far of a stretch by the men at the top. Believing in the impossible requires a level of intellectual bravery, or, paradoxically, childish credulity. Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote about this as a type of "poetic faith"- that the "semblance of truth" could be conveyed through supernatural or otherwise fantastical means by simply enjoying the impossible narrative for its own sake. When we willingly suspend disbelief, we become privy to ephemeral truths about human nature, about society, and about the world in which we live. All of the best speculative fiction, even if it's considered low brow by literary standards, illustrates the usefulness of actively letting go of critical faculty- taking a leap, into the air, and flying, as an act of faith- and thus being rewarded not only through the power of entertainment and novelty but by the inherent meaning and truth conveyed.

Truth, however, is another sticky concept. Christopher Reeve, in his role as Superman in the aforementioned movie, uses the hero's old motto of "Truth, Justice, and the American Way". We see here how intimately Superman is tied to ideas about the U.S., what it stands for, or perhaps what it should aspire to. Veering away from suspension of disbelief for a moment, this motto traces its roots to the second World War, for Superman's radio show in an effort to support American troops overseas. It again became used by George Reeves in the 1950s TV series, this time as Cold War rhetoric. These are true statements, and the more cynical among us bristle at the hokeyness the tagline embodies while simultaneously being tangential to propaganda. If we employ our willingness to believe, without any umbrage or analysis, we may find that the simplicity of these basic values as stated have a kind of beauty that is often absent in popular discourse. 

Truth is not only sticky, it's very difficult to face. It's not terribly surprising that Superman has been increasingly considered corny in recent decades, or that belief in American ideals has become such a quagmire. People often rightly point out that the men who founded our nation, and spoke of freedom, largely owned human beings for the purpose of forced labor. Many examples from history directly contradict the ideals expressed in the founding documents, and it feels increasingly childish or naive to equate "the American Way" with Truth or Justice. Perhaps, however, a childlike view - or a suspension of disbelief, cynicism, and anger - is helpful in believing we can get there. In recent years, Superman has been instead saying "Truth, Justice, and a Better Tomorrow"- and one could argue that the sentiment is precisely the same. The Truth that the founding fathers were promoting was held by them to be self-evident. One might say even a child could tell you what freedom is, what equality looks like, and what's fair. For reasons seem to be intrinsically part of human nature, the basic values of human dignity and equality are reasoned away as flights of fancy. 

There's nothing controversial or even political about Truth. If we accept for our purposes that by "men" the founders used an archaic form of "human", we see by these self-evident truths that we are all equal, and each of us has the right to Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. There are no qualifiers in this vision of what it means to be American. It should be obvious, this Truth, or self-evident as we interact with others in the world- and yet for so many, the premise seems laughably alien. This is, perhaps, where Justice comes in. Prior to, during, and after the founding of these United States the original ideals have consistently failed to manifest in a multitude of ways. In other ways, though, this grand titanic experiment has gradually arced toward its goal. If we are to exercise our muscles in disbelief suspension, through intellectual honesty or childish optimism, we can get to a place where despite all evidence to the contrary such lofty ambitions are achievable. We can believe in a Better Tomorrow, we can believe that it's the same as the American Way, just as we can believe a man can fly.

The ugly truths and injustices of our modern world may lead us to ennui, despair, and hopelessness. It must not, however, lead us to concede defeat prematurely. There is still goodness in the world, and even if it seems less self-evident when one looks at the news or scrolls through social media, we are all equal parts of the equation and in the same boat. Xenophobia, dehumanization, and bigotry seems so obviously anathema to the very specific principles set forth in the Constitution, and yet many wave American flags while spewing such rhetoric. There's something to be said for the fact that Superman stood for these ideals even though he was not only an immigrant from another nation, but from another planet. We seem to be stuck in a binary mindset, one rife with contradiction and logical fallacies. Whether we consider the America of the idea space to be just as corny and fictional as Superman, or whether we believe in an alternate factual interpretation of traditionalism from the founders, we are becoming increasingly at odds not only with each other but also with our humanity. If we don't want the Earth to go the way of Krypton, we should do everything in our power to bring these founding principles to bear.

   As a character, Superman was born out of what became known as the Golden Age of comic books. In a literary sense, the concept of the Golden Age relates to a time before humanity suffered, a paradise that once existed and was lost. Occasionally, examples of this literary device depict a Utopian future. Myriad dimensions of this kind of idea manifest in our discourse regularly; people may speak of the "good old days", or become nostalgic for simpler times. If we are to concern ourselves with Truth, however, we realize that this nostalgia relates to a past that never was. The above image seems like a bittersweet relic of a bygone era, but worse than that, it's a message of hope from nearly three-quarters of a century ago that seems to have burned out instead. The 1950s were a complicated time, and there are plenty of reasons Superman's message here didn't match reality then- but our Man of Tomorrow was forward thinking, and many of the inequalities present at that time gradually met with Justice. Now, a quarter of the way through the 21st century, this golden utopian America seems just as fictional, cornball, and archaic as Superman himself. But Superman never dies, even despite stories in the comics and the movies; similarly, the defiant and indomitable spirit of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness can never be crushed.

The point here is that we should not discard our ideals simply because they are impossible. Real Truth exists despite our inborn need to dissect it and twist it and ultimately cast it aside. The America that is analogous to Truth and Justice, that truly embodies such values, exists in the imaginal realm and is still worthy of our aspiration. It also lives in our symbols- the flag, the bald eagle, and Superman- and can be manifested with these forms. There are stories about real-life encounters with Superman, and other comic characters, existing as a sort of tulpa to the writers and artists who bring him to life on the page. Alvin Schwartz, who wrote Superman comic strips for nearly 20 years, writes about his encounters with such manifestations in his book An Unlikely Prophet- and ultimately realizes that Superman is only one half of the character. The other half is Clark Kent, the mild-mannered reporter. While none of us can claim to fly, bend steel or have x-ray vision we can all relate to Kent. Whether we choose to believe claims such as those made by Schwartz in his book, we can nevertheless extrapolate from the idea of thought forms becoming real that the impossible may not be as far away as we think. In spite of the fact that we've never quite seen the kind of Golden Age or self-evident truths in action the way we would wish to, we must nevertheless hold space for them. We keep them close to our hearts, the way Clark wore his costume under his shirt.

Perhaps some symbols, archetypes, and forms outlive their usefulness eventually. Perhaps there are ages and epochs where the gods reign supreme and others where humanity lifts itself up. We can't wait for the deus ex machina, the blue and red bullet from the sky to come and rescue us all from the horrors we've created. But if we believe a man can fly, if we believe that a better tomorrow can be today, if we can suspend our disbelief enough to make room for such naive sounding things as Truth or Justice or the American Way, then maybe we can manifest our cultural Superman as we live our Clark Kent lives. As we look up in the sky, we can channel hope. The fight is not over, and likely it never will be. We fight in spite of it all in the hopes of that impossible future which rests entirely on poetic faith, that there will come a time when fighting is no longer necessary.

Who cares if it's corny? Believe.

Horsefeathers or: How to Dig a Pony

 "I-I-I-I dig a pony

Well you can celebrate anything you want

Yes, you can celebrate anything you want!"

-The Beatles, "Dig a Pony"

It's important to celebrate the little things. It's easy to forget those small bits of magic that bring us smiles to soften the edge on what can be a trying and exhausting day-to-day existence. A kind word from a stranger or hearing a favorite song by chance can mean all the difference, and if we proceed through life with this in mind we can generate a ripple effect of positivity and radiate everything we are throughout the Cosmos. 

I truly believe this and yet I still forget it, particularly at times when things get hectic and stressful. Such was the case this week, when after several long and irritating days at work I found myself without cell reception to guide my route out of Lincoln, Massachusetts. I idly wondered whether I was near a strange spot in that town, known as Ponyhenge, which holds a special place in my heart. Lo and behold, as I scanned the road ahead for any signs that might direct me to the highway I saw a familiar field beyond an electric fence. Rounding a curve I arrived at that most magical of places.

 There's really not much to know about Ponyhenge. Having been there a handful of times I can definitively say that it exists, and beyond that all there seems to be are vague stories about its origin. It seems agreed upon that one day, a rocking horse was left in a farmer's field. Later, there was another- then another, until eventually dozens of rocking horses of varying kinds occupied the field. The arrangement of the ponies changes frequently, and no one knows who moves them- except, presumably, the person responsible for doing that. I would caution anyone, however, from presuming too much about the ponies. The ponies are there for us to dig, not to understand.

There's not much to know, but there's plenty to feel and say about Ponyhenge. My first visit to this mystical, whimsical place was at the very beginning of 2020. A few inches of snow had fallen the night before, and though a bit of it had piled up on the fence rails none was observed on any of the ponies. No footprints marked the snow on the ground around them, and it felt almost a shame to disrupt the pure icy placidity by trudging into the circle.

Having heard about about the mysterious movement of the toy equines, I found it worth noting that no tracks of any kind marked the snow. Of course, this being my first visit, there was no way for me to tell whether they had been rearranged overnight. It is difficult to ascertain whether a mystery even exists here, which is paradoxically a mystery in itself. One gets the sense the ponies have secrets, and they are most certainly not talking. A horse is a horse, of course, of course, and no one can talk to a horse of course...

In lieu of information, and hard evidence from which to draw conclusions I've found it best to approach situations like this with intuition and a light heart. I was unprepared for the mystical "vibe", for lack of a better term, the location had or the effect it would have on me. What I felt was a kind of elation, a whimsical and wondrous restorative wave of childlike joy that hit as hard as a brisk New England winter breeze. I joked afterwards that I had gone to draw upon the ancient power of the ponies, but I'd be lying if I said there wasn't some truth to that. I felt the same way this week upon entering the rearranged circle of rocking horses. You can indicate everything you see, but what you feel is really important too. 

So much of the paranormal relies heavily on creepiness, and the scare factor. People like their ghost stories in the way they like campfire tales, funhouses and horror movies. This is absolutely fine, and normal, but there is so much more to the weirdosphere to be experienced. Those who only want the scares may be missing out, and doing themselves a disservice by neglecting the wholesome and silly weirdness. Whenever I post things about Ponyhenge, there is invariably comments about how eerie it is, and I can't emphasize enough how opposite that is to my experience of it. In a return visit back in 2021, I even brought my intrepid hound (then just a puppy) Bernie and he loved it. Meanwhile other families with children were there to enjoy a relatively safe pandemic outing amongst the inanimate equine sentinels of Old Sudbury Road. 

To what do I attribute this mystical elation, this balm for a weary soul? Searching my mind for horse-related ideas to write about, and experiences in my life that I could have associated with these rocking horses to inspire such wonder I considered writing one of my more characteristic posts, where I connect a bunch of disparate ideas and attempt to synthesize them in some form of coherent thought. I thought about Lady Wonder, the allegedly psychic horse investigated by J. B. and Louisa Rhine, which has long been a favorite paranormal case. It is also a great example of wholesome and inspiring paranormalia that is conspicuously free of scares. Lady Wonder would be an accomplished psychic by human standards, so as a horse she was unparalleled. She predicted outcomes of boxing matches and Presidential elections, and even aided criminal investigations. Rhine thought that she and her handler, Mrs. Fonda, had a telepathic link. Magician Milbourne Christopher claimed that Fonda was using subtle cues to direct the horse, as she "typed" her predictions using a specially customized contraption for letter selection. Ricky Jay, in his book Learned Pigs and Fireproof Women, gives examples of how this trick was done going all the way back to the colonial period in American history. Animals such as Toby the Learned Pig showcased similar abilities, albeit without the acute prognostication that Lady Wonder exhibited. If Mrs. Fonda was "cheating" through subtle cues, and her predictions were still accurate, then a case can still be made for the presence of psi ability. Where the ponies of Lincoln are tight-lipped, Lady Wonder was a fount of information- but a psychic horse is almost as absurd as a mystical toy one.

I thought also about horses used in reincarnation gags, which I had written about before in my esoteric Three Stooges post. In a kind of coincidence that happens all too commonly for me, the horse that appeared with the Besser-era Stooges in Hoofs and Goofs was called Tony the Wonder Horse, who had appeared with Tom Mix in a number of old westerns. It's not clear if he and Lady were related, but one does wonder. Tony was notable for his use in these westerns as a character who seemed to understand English and the context of what was going on, in spite of the fact that he was just a horse in every other respect. The Stooges weren't the only ones to use a human reincarnation into a horse in a film either- Laurel and Hardy, who often played alongside equine co-stars, used it as a punchline in their feature film The Flying Deuces.  Ollie expresses his wish to come back as horse, should he find himself reincarnated; and of course, he gets his wish. "Here's another nice mess you've gotten me into!", he says to Stan. Everything has got to be just like you want it to, because...

I also thought about my own, minimal interactions with horses. I've done a little bit of horseback riding and used to help a friend with her horses, years ago. One of the horses was so fond of me, she would grab me by my coat with her teeth and pull me back to her when I tried to leave the stable. The other one nearly killed me by bolting suddenly while I was saddled up on him. They called him Turbo for a reason, and after being spooked by the sound of loon he almost threw me completely off of him, and it was all I could do to climb back into the right position, and to pull the reigns before the dumb panicked animal ran itself over the edge of a small cliff. 

Much later in life I decided to take my son horseback riding for his birthday with a group of other paying people. Midway through the guided jaunt through a woodland trail, the instructor halted everyone and shushed us. We had interrupted a procession of deer; half were on one side of the trail and half on the other, quizzically observing our party. It seemed every direction around us, the deer were watching, cautious but peaceful, awaiting their opportunity to rejoin each other. Seated on a large beast of burden and surrounded by wild animals, seeing the wonder in my son's eyes reflecting the wonder in mine was a surreal and magical experience. There were strict rules against fumbling for one's phone during a ride there, for plenty of good reasons, so I didn't get a picture or anything like that- but it is as it should be. Pictures rarely capture the magic, the feeling, the wonder- some experiences are meant to be personal and profound in their totality. You can imitate everyone you know, but you can only ever be you. A snapshot on a smartphone will only ever be a pale approximation of the numinous, even when it manifests as more mundane and lacking in any paranormal significance.

 

I had nearly forgotten, as well, about the time I went to visit the reportedly haunted Looff Carousel at Crescent Park, in Providence, Rhode Island. It's a fully restored and operational carousel. Being the goofball that I am, I suppose I should have anticipated that feeling of joy and childlike excitement at the prospect of riding the horsies and playing the ring toss game. I found it hard to believe there was any kind of spooky haunting in such a place; carousels and carnivals have a long association with weirdness and ghost stories, to be certain, but my intuitive read was bereft of the sinister. Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes springs to mind, and perhaps, fool that I am, I was just taken in by the glamor of Mr. Dark's circus. Maybe, like in the book, the carousel had the power to move people backwards or forwards in time. Or perhaps horses make me happy, whether they are the living, breathing kind or made of porcelain; whether they are predicting future events or nearly maiming me. They are something to celebrate, something to dig. Can you dig it?

In my exhaustion this week, and knowing that there was still much to do after arriving home and that sleep would still be a distant proposition, the auspicious and restorative effects of Ponyhenge were not only welcome, but sorely needed. Despite my frustrations, anger, and stress during the week, despite having been up and running since 4:30 a.m., there was time enough to stop and absorb some ancient power from the ponies. In preparing to write about this I learned a bit about the town of Lincoln, how it had been formed from parts of Lexington and Concord. It had been one of the places involved in the first battles of the Revolutionary War, and the place where Paul Revere's midnight horseback ride had terminated in his capture.  Revere, and his historic ride, are also something I've written about before. I read about the history of rocking horses, and the first ones seemed to appear around the time Lincoln was first settled by colonizers. Mass production of rocking horses began after the Revolutionary War ended. Lincoln was named after Lincolnshire in the U.K., which has its legends of little people called Tiddy Mun. Maybe the colonial inhabitants brought their folkloric friends with them, and the Tiddy Mun are reportedly about the right size to enjoy a rocking horse built for children. The original Nipmuc inhabitants of the area, forcibly removed from their homes by the early settlers, probably had their own nature spirits who were displaced by the Tiddy Mun. Perhaps these things all come full circle in their own ways, like rocking horses rearranged by unseen hands. Perhaps it's not important.

The mystery, and in fact the mystery of whether there's even a mystery at all associated with this roadside oddity must at all costs be preserved. As my wife Pam, my muse, said to me earlier: "Knowing why the ponies move would ruin it. It would take all the magic away." I absolutely agree. All I know for sure is how I feel when I'm there, and it's the feeling a child has when about to climb onto a carousel or pet an exotic animal. Upon leaving the sacred circle of ponies, I looked down to see a runic symbol in the grass. You might say that it's just an arrow from a sign that had fallen apart, and if you say that then I'm afraid you haven't learned how to dig a pony. That is the Elder Futhark rune known as Tiwaz, which represents the Norse god Tyr, who, incidentally, I've also written about before. Tyr represents justice, self-sacrifice, and balance. Unfortunately in modern times, the symbol has been co opted by Nazis. One has to tread lightly with mysticism out in the world, and be very clear in one's intent and communication. Inside the pony circle, I choose to interpret the rune as a good omen. 

Balance can be difficult to achieve, but like horseback riding it takes practice. I preach about positivity fairly often, and sometimes feel like a fraud when I fall into the trap of depression or let stress dictate a foul mood that perpetuates itself. The negative moods need to find expression, but all should be tempered and balanced. I would highly recommend injecting magic into your life, wherever you can- and acknowledging it when magic finds you. Don't let fear dominate, and face what's coming with the cool determination of this particular pony:

Absorb the ancient pony power and proceed. Can you dig it now???