What is beauty? Is it a diamond ring? Is it a rainstorm in summertime, sunshine, topped off with a double rainbow over freshly cut grass? My Grandma said that everything was beautiful, even me. I am more inclined to focus on the semantics of this conundrum. In other words, I do not think that beauty is the correct word choice for the world. Odd, Unpredictable, Chaotic. Nope. That's still not right. A Fucking Freakshow? Bingo! The world is a fucking freakshow and we are but merely actors. The Bearded Lady. The midgets. The Wolfman. Michael Jackson who just got fired.
When I was but a little blond boy, I liked to skate on ice. The city would flood Pearl Street park's basketball court and all of the poor kids, who had seen the north side of town, would play pick-up games of ice hockey. One night, after playing a rough game with my brothers and their friends, I stayed a little longer to skate in the moonlight. My mother and father were watching as fat snowflakes fell gracefully to the ice below. I danced - skate danced and I am sure it was quite a sight to see. My mother said it was beautiful...a fucking freakshow, I am certain, but that image stuck with her. From time to time she still brings it up as one of the more magical images in her muddied recollection of life. I never quite understood the magic of that moment, until last night in front of the Thrift and Gift. While driving away from Open Gym, I looked to my right and saw, standing in front of that wonderful second-hand store, Krystal, just twirling in her new dress that she pulled out of the free box. It may have been a Freakshow, but Lord, it was a beautiful Freakshow.
It will come back and haunt you in the most kind way.
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