please loan me your minutes of fame

At one time, when I'd fallen in love with circus but decided (incorrectly) that it wasn't something I could ever do, I set my sights instead on working backstage in some capacity.  The logic was that if I couldn't be onstage, backstage was just as good.

Hoo boy was I wrong about that.  I mean, I'm sure there are things that are better for body and soul than getting up in front of people, doing something you love, and basking in their adoration--but those other things are probably illegal.  Performance is intoxicating.  Circus is intoxicating--I kind of knew that, already, what with the waiting hungrily for ten years to go to circus school, but still: whoa.  I love watching other people put on their makeup in the green room (more proficiently than me); I love Nancy the stage manager (who, like all the crew, rocks) walking through to tell us we have fifteen minutes, five minutes, two minutes; I love the opening procession, where no one but the Youth Circus and the clowns seem to know where they're going; I love the look of blank jumpiness on performers' faces when they're about to go onstage, and the sweaty elation when they come off; I love hearing muted applause from the green room; I love the happy traffic jam in the lobby after the show.  You guys, I am totally hooked.

Most of all I love the three minutes of my act.  Not surprisingly, they are the fastest minutes of the day.  (Also not surprising: the twenty minutes between the start of the show and my act are the longest minutes of the day.)  As soon as they're over, I am both intensely relieved and also I want to be back on the other side of those three minutes.  Last night and tonight both went fabulously for me: all my skills came off like they're supposed to--and even if they didn't, nobody knew the difference. 

I had been a bit worried about getting onstage, since there's a lot of striking (putting away) of mats and ropes from the previous act, and my trapeze has to be brought out and hung up.  The crew are impressively fast, but there was nothing to cover it up, and my walk onstage was conducted in awkward silence.  (The previously-mentioned tango act was moved earlier in the show, so I didn't get to hitch a ride on their coattails.)

Thank goodness for clowns.  The Pi Clowns noticed my predicament and kindly offered to provide a little distraction and a clever way to get me onstage.  Now I hide behind them as they cross the stage in a clump; they drop me off at my trapeze and continue on their way.  It's super cute.  Also, I'm pretty sure that mere association with the Pi Clowns will make you a better performer.

The new ending has also sorted itself out: people clap as soon as I hit the mat.  I don't think I'm faking anyone out with the fall, as Stefan perhaps intended, but at least I haven't heard giggles.  Last night I did miscalculate the edge of the mat when I was getting up, and nearly rolled off, but they didn't even laugh at me then.  Bless them.

(If you are reading this and you were in Thursday or Friday's audience, bless you in particular.  If you are reading this and you are planning to come to one of the shows, know that these guys have set the bar high.) 

The most pleasant surprise of this experience has been the discovery that people clap for everything.  Everything.  Before Thursday, I only ever performed this incarnation of the act before other performers who have seen (and often, done) everything that I do before.  But now the audiences are, if anything, biased in our favor; most of them have friends or family in the show. I'm certainly not complaining--it blows my mind.  I had no idea people would applaud things like my ankle hang.  Friggin amazing.  It even keeps me from rushing, since I want to linger and soak it in.

So now, all that's left is the weekend.  Between my three shows, I will have had nine minutes of pure, unadulterated solo trapeze time.  That means I am owed six more minutes of fame... but I think I am going to need more than that.