Duncan (c) sarah fishbein (1)One year you were an American exchange student living in Paris and the next you return (with a Fulbright) to study at the French National Circus School. The circus! What happened?

Yeah, I’m still as surprised as everyone. Basically, I discovered it by coincidence. My exchange program was a “critical studies” program with an emphasis on cinema and philosophy, and the goal was to expose us to as much Parisian culture as possible. On one of the outings we went to a “nouveau cirque,” a kind of contemporary circus, and I was blown away. It was absolutely nothing like the clichéd image of the circus that I had in my head. It was athletic and dynamic and dark, more like a piece of physical theater, with very able performers. I started seeing more shows and got hooked.

978-0-307-27172-3 (1)I arrived in Paris with vague hopes of being thought of as a student rather than a scholar, a circus hopeful like the others in my program. If asked, I would of course tell the truth, but I honestly thought it wouldn’t come up. Although I wasn’t an acrobat, I was reasonably athletic—-I had excelled at sports as a kid and done some rock–climbing in college. And it was, after all, a “preparatory” program. It would take me less than a class to figure out how hopelessly naïve I was.

Cornmeal laminating our tongues, we snake the streets aimlessly, but with a vague feeling for the Zócalo. It hides its skewed quadrilateral just out of sight, guarded by row after row of apartment, bank, food stall, market, stacks of carpeted speakers, their black and red wires massing for some kind of tangled revolution. On one street corner, a tight unit of white people. We hear their teenage English on the hot wind, too loud, oblivious. Various accents—East Coast, Midwestern, Southern… Their chaperone, a middle-aged woman with a Bostonian bent, bears the thick-necked, thick glasses, stiff perm of their church group leader. Her forehead is pursed, placid but purposeful. Clearly, she feels there are people here in need of saving.

One boy with oversized teeth and pimples on his ears spanks the ass of a willowy girl in black stretch pants. She turns, raven-haired and red-faced to him, as he high-fives another boy with a side-turned ball cap. In her look is patience, pity. She shakes her head and says, “Stop,” meaning, You’re lucky I don’t take your balls, buck-tooth. Another girl, hay-bale blonde, shows her something on her cell phone. A photograph. I’m guessing it’s of the man before us, rolling along the vaulted arcade across the street. Both girls giggle, then turn away from him, possibly ashamed, but too young to admit it. They cross the street, and we cross too, but we keep our distance. We don’t want to be too near these other Americans. As nucleus, as core, Mexico City is leagues ahead of Buffalo Grove, Illinois.

When we step before the arcade on the other side, the sky goes glassy as bath tile, and the beggars jockey for space and attention. This arched passageway seems shadowless, holds more light than the sky itself, sponging the sun. The man, the one who the girls likely photographed can’t be dated. He seems to have side-stepped definition-by-age in that way that people with missing limbs often do. When there’s less of the actual body, there’s less to determine age by. A lack of evidence. He is without arms or legs, perched on a palate of wood with crooked wheels and somehow propels himself along the arcade with his stomach muscles and the remains of his pelvis. The buck-toothed boy looks at him, then immediately turns away. He does no imitation, no virginal air-humping, and I am happy for this. The palate of wood is decorated with a few odd coins, almost enough, I hope, for one tamale. Happy…

Two women who look far too old to be the mothers of infants, parade with their babies, holding them out to the passers-by, imploring looks burned into their faces. They do this for a few minutes, then, as if their shifts are over, their faces melt into smiles as they approach each other, swap stories, regain a measure of youth. When this brief break is over, they age their faces again, sadden their eyes, lift the wriggling children, wrapped in pink scarves.

One of the church group boys spits to the stone and I know he means nothing by it; he’s used to spitting on sidewalks and lawns; to him, it’s habit, reflex, but the people here take notice, scowl as he passes, his in-process backbones poking from his jersey, a grounded bird, amputated wings. A man in a rickety wheelchair, the seat constructed from an onion sack, clasps his hands in prayer or deference as we pass. He is legless, but has flipper-like feet at the bottom of his torso, the toes fused, the nails haphazard like a handful of coins tossed into cement and left to dry where they stuck. He is smiling, graying stubble surrounding his mouth, a patron saint of manners. Hands still clasped, he nods to us and utters the most optimistic “buenos tardes.”

Bells are ringing in the distance, penetrating the city with some ancient music, Mexico City giving itself over to all reverberation and gong. Even the pollution seems to get along with the sky, agreeing to elicit this palest of blues, some estranged dropout cousin to some brighter ocean. A hunched old man in a torn navy windbreaker holds a shaking hand to us as if caught in the sound-wake of the bells. I think of my aunt with Parkinson’s, of everybody’s aunt with Parkinson’s, as his fingers dance and his torn windbreaker voice manages, “por un taquito, por un taquito.”

The entire world is this small rolled-up tortilla, deep-fried in bell-music and the grease of beautiful dirty sky. Of ancient excavations and cathedrals that had to see blood before they saw worship. But as if to rail against it, to assert some stubborn human force, surely destined to fail, but packed with electricity, so many men playing so many accordions, so many upturned hats not yet full of paper, violins and saxophones and guitars beating back the invisible bells, the stupid nervous double-dog-dared hands of all buck-toothed white boys with the most melodic of the world’s Fuck Yous, holding the fort so the captain can emerge from his sentries. And here he is: just a teenage boy himself, standing behind a pot-bellied beast of an instrument—wide as a park bench, the sickly premature offspring of piano and violin, and he’s cranking the shit out of it, eliciting the most pathetic circus music, one of miserable underfed elephants, their ivory dying and sloughing into the ring, just out of sight of the audience, deep into their popcorn, these elephants who the ringmaster loves, his only real friends… Drawn closer, we can see, printed on the front of the instrument in gold lettering, the words, Harmonichord and Berlin.

It’s the sort of instrument that should require at least two people to operate, to make this kind of sound, but the boy is doing it without sweating. How it got here from Germany… The pigeons are log-rolling overhead, preparing for back-flips over the chimneys and spires, rolling their throats like mantra. The flies are closer to us, circling our scalps as if runways, places to rest. To them, I whisper, “Medieval,” “Organistrum,” “conquest.” Louisa mutters something in her first-language about love and learning. I feel I am learning to do both, to open up, to ornament my vocabulary with Sí, Sí,, Sí, but it’ll take some time. We wipe our faces with our shirt sleeves. A small girl blows soap bubbles at us through a blue plastic wand. She wears no shoes. Walks the arcade stones in white cotton socks. Her mother, younger than we are, touches Louisa’s hand, says, in barely-accented English, “Don’t be sad.” In our chests, the elephants stand on their hind legs, perform their best trick. In this, what can do but age, look like our parents? I pull a handful of coins from my pants pocket, not sure yet what to do with them. I am learning, but it will take some time. So much to clap for.


I’m sure plenty of you have heard of, and maybe even are participating in this year’s NaNoWriMo event. For the uninitiated, NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month and the project encourages writers to spend one month writing a 50,000-word piece of fiction.

I’ve decided to participate in NaNoWriMo this year.

Sort of.

The thing is, I don’t write fiction. I’ve tried. It’s terrible. Plus, it’s weirdly more personal than the truth. Nonfiction is just me re-telling you embarrassing shit I’ve done so you don’t hear it from someone else first, whereas fiction exposes fantasies. That is some jelly I do not think you are ready for.

So I’m going to tell you 30 stories in 30 days. And I don’t know if all of these stories will be good. Some of them are going to stretch the definition of stories (“bunch of dick/fart jokes” is on my list of potential story topics). But there will definitely be 30 of them and they will definitely be posted daily.

Starting… NOW.


Portrait of the Filmmaker as a Young Lady

The first film I ever made was a 15 second stop-motion animated film called The Kooky Circus. I have never seen it.

I was in the fourth grade, living in Omaha, Nebraska and I participated in one of those “gifted and talented” programs called Challenge. Once a month I’d get out of class for a few hours to work on brain teasers and special projects and one month we learned about stop-motion animation. Our teacher set up a camera and we each got to make our own film.

I don’t know how particularly “gifted” I was, but I had a special talent for slacking off on special projects. When it came time to write a script I found a toy elephant and a toy giraffe and decided that it would be really easy to move them around in a “kooky” manner. I think I looked around for a toy monkey and I think I eventually proceeded without one. (You guys, they’re called “motion pictures,” not “motion great ideas.”)

I did put some extra effort into the title sequence, cutting out each letter in the title from a different color of construction paper and making them all swirl around the screen as they entered the frame. In fact, the title sequence is where I spent 90% of my time and effort. After that I made a toy elephant do a backflip and a toy giraffe dance around erratically for a fraction of a second. And… fin.

“Good film! All of the thumbs up!” –Critics

A month later our teacher set up a little premiere event for all of us in the group and I waited patiently to see my finished film. When I finally spied the first glimpse of my jaggedy construction paper letters flying across the screen I blushed, giggled, and covered my face with my hands in a very “Ohmygod, you guys! I’m sooo embarassed!” gesture, which was less cute than it sounds and kind of silly and unnecessary.

When I stopped giggling I looked up and my movie was over. The filmstrip had moved on, without fanfare, to the next student’s film and I sat, mortified, knowing that I had missed my chance to see how it all turned out. Would the elephant complete that backflip? Would the giraffe’s dance be delightful? I never found out. And I never will.

I have spent the last 30 years reprimanding the giggly, silly little girl inside. That film might have been kooky, and it might have been lazy, but it has had a profound effect on me. It’s made me realize how much I regret letting fear make me miss out on something fun.

One down, 29 to go.