On a quiet Saturday afternoon a clown in a campervan pulled up in my driveway. At the time I lived in a lonely house on the edge of a salt marsh. It was a place of shifting mists and lengthy silences. Misfits, artists and ferals lived thereabouts and sometimes came to visit so when the clown jumped out of his campervan I wasn’t all that surprised.
He’d lost his way, he said, and was late for his engagement at a children’s birthday party. I gave him directions then, curious, asked where he’d come from. He told he’d driven down from the city some three hours away. He’d worn his clown clothes complete with orange floppy wig, red plastic nose and full clown makeup the whole way. He was a very serious clown and didn’t seem to think there was anything odd about that.
Out of the blue,
with no rhyme or reason,