laughite-blog

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The truth will set you free. But not until it is finished with you.

Infinite Jest, David Foster Wallace (via macrolit)

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🃏 ┊ ❛  ghost of normalcy past ! ━ ‹ HEADCANON. › 

the time before the clown. 

         JACK NAPIER        had been a ballet dancer.  &&  did you k  now  ?  there’s no such thing as the perfect ballet dancer.      all the people waxing and shaving an shoving themselves into ill fitting tights.  all those people   twisting and contorting   themselves  ,  held aloft in defiance of gravity and their own joints.  he’d learned that shame was something that other people could afford  ,  the young  ,  bright eyed things.  bad vision. short-sighted  ;  the audience a blur to them  ,  applause and the dark house lights.  he’d always had good eyesight.  the senior dancers all in a circle  ,  whispering  ,  he’d hissed  ,  “ you see the blonde ?  eighth row  ,  end  ?  she’s falling asleep.   “   another would whisper about a man checking his phone.  and that was it.  all of them performing for   AN AUDIENCE OF ONE.   a woman fighting to stay awake while they strained themselves and gave it their all on stage.   you lose one.  you lose them all.  course.  no such thing as a perfect dancer.  he broke his leg one night during rehearsals.  no more dancing for him. and what was he to do ?  bag groceries  ?  all he’d ever known was the stage.  and wasn’t that a fucking joke  ?  years spent trying to perfect something that couldn’t be done  ,  call him sisyphus  ,  pushing a boulder up a hill.  LIKE ONE OF THOSE BAD JOKES.   latched on to the only thing he’d ever known.  the stage.  the stage lights and the audience.  

JACK NAPIER: A COMEDY D’ART !    oh he thought he’d make a killing  ,  no shame and no nerves and  no timing.  no ability to read a room. no idea how to locate his demographic.  desperation has a stink.  smells like cheap cigarettes  ,  like old pipes and the stack of bills piling up on his table.  the subways were filled with performers  ,  people reeking of sweat  ,  of shaking hands and that same old desperation.  his jokes fell even flatter in the tunnels. tuned out by the mindless crowd. the endless march from one train to the next  ,  the  headphones that drowned out sound.  he took a risk.  took a chance. 

his muscles ached the first day.  in ways they hadn’t since he’d danced.  painted head to toe  ,  frozen for hours.  a  living statue in the park.  he’d learned a lot of hard lessons.  no one notices things that don’t move. so he’d learned.  learned to move just enough to draw the eye. learned how to freeze. learned timing  ,  watching people just as they watched him  ,  not quite a performance.  he’d known how to be a nobody  ,  but he learned the value or being invisible.  HUMAN-SHAPED AND SUB-HUMAN.   nothing of note.    easily erased.  scoffed at the people who used mask to hide their eyes  ,  perfected his make up and his scelera covering contacts and dubbed them amateurs. 

he’d learned how to bide his time  ,  he’d learned to smile just when people expected it least. watched the people jump and the children scream. the pennies in his pockets weren’t laced with pity anymore.

THE JOKER  learned people watching them in the park. listening to their conversations and witnessing what the world was like when they thought they were alone. the joker knows people  ,  it’s what makes him so competent. it’s what makes him so dangerous. 

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“If you are not like everybody else, then you are abnormal, if you are abnormal , then you are sick. These three categories, not being like everybody else, not being normal and being sick are in fact very different but have been reduced to the same thing.”

— Michel Foucault

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isn’t it rich? are we a pair? me here at last on the ground, you in mid-air. WHERE ARE THE CLOWNS? isn’t it bliss? don’t you approve? one who keeps tearing around, one who can’t move. where are the clowns? there ought to be clowns? just when i’d stopped opening doors, finally knowing the one that i wanted was yours. making my entrance again with my usual flair, sure of my lines, no one is there. don’t you love farce? my fault, i fear. i thought that you’d want what i want, sorry, my dear! but where are the clowns? send in the clowns.DON’T BOTHER, THEY’RE HERE !

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𝐸𝑌𝐸𝑆 𝐹𝐿𝐼𝐶𝐾𝐸𝑅𝐼𝑁𝐺   --  𝐷𝐴𝑅𝑇𝐼𝑁𝐺      the way a clock’s eyes pace the room on the    tick !   tock !    tick !    tock !      to snarl ?  to gnash his teeth ?    sharp angled crooked little juts of bone  ,  the only piece of a skeleton exposed to the open air.  to sit in    suffocating  ,  dream crushing silence   and watch as the good doc shows a strong face.     b o r i n g    nothing fun in the tough line of her jaw.   is that a clenching he sees  ?   is that a twitching muscle ?   bright eyes vacant  ,  oh   to have excitement  ,  even  one so   repressed   as her  ,  to watch it fade to a ill-disguised boredom.  to tap his fingers ?  to look away ?    to feign a slinking exhaustion ?   (  his eyes are red  ,  it’s true !  but lack of sleep feels like adrenaline in his veins  ,  but doc !   the hands always shake i swear !  )  a line of bodies  ,  a street of grafitti  ,  people shouting his name.   steady hands. 

collective hours of silence but for    their breaths intermingling   in the air  ,   (   oh doc  ,  why  ,  that’s almost    intimate.   the rattle of the half dead a/c unit in it’s death throws and the gentle exhales of breath shared from across a table.  the only people in the world for the way they’re shut together.   TELL ME DOC  ,  TELL ME QUICK:   am i locked in here  ?  or are you  ?     )  but for the sound of his cuffs and their meddling chains rattling against his every move.  but for the way the good doc shifts.    she’d asked a question hadn’t she ?   at some point ?  in the beginning maybe  ,  when her voice had been exactly what he’d expected  ,  her hair so straight and sleek like even it was    afraid of a little    c h a o s .     to stare her down ?  to stab her with the pen tucked    oh-so-carefully    into the clipboard  ?      𝑇𝑂 𝑆𝑀𝐼𝐿𝐸 𝐴𝑇 𝐻𝐸𝑅    lips stretch into a grin  ,  slow and steady wins the race  !   cracked skin splits and he yearns for the feeling of   grease paint    to slick the way when his tongue darts out to lick over the harsh texture of scars.  MULTIPLE CHOICE !   finger’s play over the metal table  ,  bolted down tight  ,  they’d been good to him.    poor catatonic ole’ joker    ,  dead eyes  ,  dead tongue  ,  a weight in his mouth like lead.  like a bullet  ,  forget silver :   his mouth was a weapon.     every few taps his nail struck the table with force.  hand taps a gallows jig on cool steel  ,  eyes studied the line of her shoulders.  would she jump  ?  would she flinch  ?  would she smile  ?   voice a slithering snake  ,  voice a worm wriggling in the dirt  ,  voice some burrowing dark eyed thing.    “   is this going as well as you hoped  ?   “  a simple question  ,  a digging hook.  “   it’s our anniversary doc.   “  

@laughette a not-so-plotted starter.

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           &&     𝑻𝑶𝑶 𝑩𝑨𝑫 𝒀𝑶𝑼'𝑹𝑬 𝑪𝑹𝑨𝒁𝒀 !      too bad you’re looney as hell !    you’re off the deep end  ,  your life’s a practical joke !    i’d bail you out but i’m broke  ;  your brains completely fried !   life’s just a party trick to you  ,  clown jokes and lots of whoop-de-doo  !   it’s time to put that on the shelf  !  you do look fetching !   it could be catching  !  i’m a little bit crazy  ,  just a little bit crazy !  i’m just a little bit crazy myself !   //  private. selective. unestablished. joker as badly written by nee.      ©

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send me  🃏  and i’ll write a starter for your muse using quotes from fight club. 

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I’m only quiet because I’m worried that if you push me too far, one day I will open my mouth and I will scream so loudly, it will shatter and break the whole world.

Iain Thomas (via quotemadness)

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What are you? A chaos.

Anaïs Nin, from Fire: From a Journal of Love (via minima–moralia)

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