The Clown and the Lover

The hardest art in the world is that of comedy, for nothing is seriously funny.

The hardest subject to understand is yourself and your own feelings, wants, and desires. We don't know what we want, and we get it. That's comedy again - breaking with the norm; writing a sentence in a way it wouldn't be expected.

This is an open train of thought, a flow of words that I'm not really steering. Comedy does not work this way. Comedy is careful, planned, it has rules, rules for how to be unexpected. Comedy cannot be improvised. Neither can love. These things, these things that provoke emotion in us, must either be carefully thought through, or they will not work. There are rules to love, just as there are rules to comedy. They exist in the space between us.

Nobody wants to see a naked human. Naked humans are ugly. There's nothing funny about that nakedness. Comedy never really drops its pants. Comedy wears polka-dotted underwear, that were carefully designed to be there. Lovers never really remove everything. It's planned, all of it.

And the worst part is, I don't know where I'm going with my plan. It's there, step by step, gestures to provoke laughter, glances to provoke love, but where does it all lead? And will anyone ever get there? We're all so easily overthrown.

Unexpected things ruin our plans. Undressing is planned. Sex is planned. Unplanned sex is rape, and rape is ugly. Beautiful things, that's it - all beautiful things have a plan. All beautiful things have rules. Everything beautiful leads somewhere, but we never reach our goal, for ugliness topples it before we're really there.

Ruined plans, overthrown plans, naked people doing their best to hide behind their beauty, comedians doing their best to continue with their jokes despite the guy on second row dropping comments.

Comedy is the hardest art. It needs to pretend to be free while at all times being bound.

There is a lot to be learned from comedians.

I miss men.

I was going to write something productive and creative and interesting to comment on the recent (and muchly happyful) development of a Fiery Fandango but alas, I couldn't think of anything more creative beyond "congratulations you guys" and "*raises an eyebrow like Spock and contemplates what this means*". Therefore, I'll leave the topic unspoken - I'm sorry folks, I really would like to elaborate - and instead talk on something I miss.

Men.

Seriously. Since I moved to Uppsala, the amount of men I have spoken with much - I mean really spoken, beyond casual "hellos" and "goodbyes" and "let's do some drama-games people!" - amounts to a total of, I think, two. These two men would be Sydow and Anton - you both have my thanks, very sincerely, but sometimes it isn't enough. I have been back home to meet with the old boys one or two weekends, but it just doesn't feel the same as getting some good old hanging out - I mean the improvised, "hey let's go hang out" kind of hang out, not the "Hey, let's plan in a Mage session two weeks from now!"

This is not meant as any offense to my numerous female friends (and less numerous girlfriend), nor as an offense to the wonderful Mage game (Heavens forbid!), I just kind of miss being an immature slob and taking on a more laid-back attitude. This is not because I want to look good for you girls, but because you punch me if I don't take care of myself. Men punch me less often. I like this quality.

I'm not very much of a beer and pretzels kind of guy, nor a football and boobies kind of guy, so I don't know exactly how this hanging-out looks. I'm guessing some interesting philosophical discussions, some retarded in-jokes, and some good old geek-crunching. The latter is abstract and intangible, but I think it's best described with examples; something like having Kenneth (man, I miss you, Kenneth) coming over to read RPG books together and discussing interesting, brief little points and anecdotes once every 20 minutes or so. It's a relaxed, no-nonsense kind of hanging out which I think is really good for the soul.

I used to do all this on a daily basis. I just don't remember it very well, because it was all so insubstantial and ridiculously pointless. Makes me realize, though, why the British used to have all those "men only" pubs.

Women, please don't hate me - too much of a good thing can be too much, that's all. Sydow and Anton, you guys rock. All the other men I miss, well, I miss you. I miss you, and the good old intellectual stupidity that comes with you.

Rock on.