Step Inside the Box

There are two key points to know when you live as a mime. One, know your audience. Two, keep fit and be prepared to run like hell when the shit hits the fan. That’s right, I am a mime. Don’t think that I don’t know that you are snickering at me this very moment. I don’t care. If not for miming, my existence would be a slow torturous death. So, laugh if you want. What are you doing to keep your brain occupied while those tiny little grains of precious sand slip through the hourglass on their way to your impending demise?

I don’t think people choose to be mimes. Mimes are just born. It’s in your DNA, your physical being, like hypothyroidism or a strong proclivity for moles. You can’t help it if one of your nostrils is gapingly larger than the other one, now can you? This is how I am a mime. My father beat my ass ragged when I was four because I stole my sister’s frilly tutu and pranced about the yard at one of his barbecues in what was a very fine and seemingly natural first performance for those of my ilk. His friends talked about it for years, much to his chagrin. This brings me to another topic. Let’s not point the homosexual finger. First off, you shouldn’t be pointing your damn finger at anyone because you obviously have no clue about right or wrong. Second, you’d be way off the mark. I am 160 pounds of pure testosterone, baby. I happen to like the ladies.

So why, you ask? Why do I put myself through it? It is like breathing to me. If I were not allowed to emote pain, sadness, joy, guilt, fear or sympathy to an audience, I would cease to be. It’s worth it, for me, to put up with the occasional band of street barbarians rolling by on their skateboards to disrupt me and smack me in the nuts. Stupid fools. I was onto them long ago and now wear protection against their hostile raids. And yes, I notice when the attractive girls stop for a moment. I see them becoming wrapped up in my performance and then their face zooms back to reality. They shy away in embarrassment. I know the look. They are attracted to the physique of a man in a leotard and succumb to my seductive trance. Then the idea of actually dating a mime sends them running for shelter. These are the horrors I face. I have been beaten in the street and ridiculed my whole life.

I once had a corporate job. Back then, I hid my other life from everyone. Dating became difficult as time went on. The more serious I felt about a woman, the bigger my guilt for hiding my passion from her. There were a few women in my past that I dared to share my secret with. It never ended very well. Their first response was one of acceptance. When they came to my street corner to see me perform and show support, it was generally the beginning of the end.

I took up with the circus crowd in order to meet other people like me. They were a crass bunch, and even the clowns made fun of me. I did, however, come across a very fine woman. She took me into her lair and for the first time in my life, I felt welcomed. Sarah, the bearded lady, was a fascinating and wonderful being. I spend many a night still dreaming of our romance. In the end, she had to leave. It was bitter sweet sorrow, but she had a very large problem with me waxing my facial hair. It sickened her to the soul despite my efforts to explain to her that I had to keep a silky smooth mug to provide the best possible appearance in my makeup. It was to no avail. Disagreements are sometimes too large to be overcome. I do believe Sarah loved me and for that I will always be grateful. I kept a lock of her beard as a memento.

So, now that I have explained to you my plight, is there no sympathy? Do you have no soul? I will continue to give of myself as a street performing mime. Bring your children, perhaps they will enjoy it. Maybe I can bring a smile to their faces. If they do not shriek, I will make them a balloon animal and present them with my best impression of joy. I promise you will be astounded.

Step Inside the Box

Zolton

Portland, United States

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Artist's Description


MCN: C7994-AFBD3-9C33E

A voice for the ridiculed.

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