As a pseudo-fictive author of many anti-academic treatises, I was lucky enough to come into possession of Volumes 1-13 of The Oneiriad, a pan-universal exploration of selfhood which elaborates on some theories of multiversal travel I had considered in my youth, before forming Die Spezielle Bruderschaft der Ontologischen Zerstörung; it seems apt to write some evidence of its contents now for the SBOZ before its untimely demise at the hands of never having existed in the first place.
I almost named this article send in the clowns, but this seems too en la nariz even for a poor, old, lunatic brute like moi. But what are The Clowns, and why do they make the least appearances (as of this current iteration of drafts and unpublishables) out of all of the cliques & fancies of The Oneiriad.
The unknown. This is the fanciful blague cosmique we must face as authorial sprites, as dangerous liaisons, as premeditated literary murderers, if we are to come out of this showground alive. I, dearest reader, failed at this task, consigned to a life of paper pop-up pill-caskets, and Lionel the healer. He sends in the girl1 as amanuensis. He reminds me what is actually happening in this beige place. He reminds me the man I regarded as the Red Forest Agent was simply my shadow. And if any have read my work on the Htupsi2, what a dangerous prospect this would be. I am indebted to Lionel, that hulking [ED—this section has been removed due to gross racism] with a heart of gold, even if at times I think he conspires to poison me with taru kawa.
The Clowns. This is the fanciful coup de poing we must face as lunatics within asylums, as left-over crowd control, as performance artists without a performance to speak of. I, dearest reader, return us to the original premise: is life a joke? The Clowns, hilariously, do not think so.
Lead by a figure entitled Rosso, The Clowns are certainly inhuman, but to render them as a separate species would also be inconsequential, perhaps even offensive. To render them with a phylogenic comprehension, a biologic one, is similarly foolish (haha, a joke mayhaps), as any amount of study would only resolve itself into what is expected. A geologist would find rich veins of quartz, and gold. A psychologist a well-mannered fellow. An ecologist, a micro-ecosystem of gut biomes and living mind schema. Rosso presents an energy of pure, unfiltered calm. Or more precisely, trust. If one meets Rosso, whether as stranger or old friend, you would trust things were safe, and well, even if he were carving your eyes out with a spoon.
But this answers nothing. Allow me the pretense to, briefly, quote from the text in question:
CathI took a deep breath, and felt the presence of Kistarian and Cavi moving up behind her, and the feeling of safety diminished, “How the hell do you know what is going on? About Rex, Vetruvian, all of this?”
Rosso spoke without a beat of error, of overthinking, “We are The Clowns, an old troupe of this world. There are some things we have to make sure are OK. CathI, we only watched your movements in such a… what is the word…” He mouthed something in a dialect she didn’t recognise, “No matter, we are not being hidden now.” Sincere smile.3
Three elements of note: they are old, they are no longer hidden, and they speak a dialect outside of known speech. For CathI at this point is imbued with The First Frequency, and thus comprehension is the least of her concerns. Hidden beings with propósito incomprensible remind me of demiurgic nonsense. Age reminds me of wisdom. Sophia, Russian Queen, ancient gnostic mother: are these further children? And the dialect, what is left of the world if not reo ma, lenguaje puro, langue pure…?4 What can we promise ourselves, if not a laugh at the end of a long, terrible day?
Sincere smile. Do you trust that? With distance, the idea of trusting Rosso, flat-toothed and stinking of stale breath, can be trusted as much as a mother-in-law; but CathI does, Rex does, we all would, if in his presence, some hormonal swarm shifting our senses to that of trusting delight. In this world post-truth, post-pandemic, post-noise, what better than a Clown to soothe the ills of the heart? Lionel is that you…
[the recording of the essay has been paused to wipe the forehead of the old scholar with a cold flannel, and provide him some dinner]
Where was I? Yes, write everything, this isn’t an essay dear, this is a, what should we call it? Enquête problématique! Make sure the punctuation matches the tone, yes, yes. Right. The Clowns. Send them in! Haha!
Let us summarise such a mystery. They are unknowable to us because they deem it so, a brief arrival in The Oneiriad only to vanish as quickly as ink left in rain. A rain where lovers might kiss. A rain where we remember our regrets and mistakes and smile at them, as we might an old friend we fell out of touch with due to a petty argument. Perhaps this is the best way to describe The Clowns, not as structured existence, as a troupe of Pierrot, but as a sensation. They are dew on a flower encrusted with ants. They are the fellowship of a new family. They are leaving the heating on overnight, conjuring feverish dreamscape. The Clowns are dangerous and trustworthy in equal measure. I have no idea what they are5.
This essay was kindly donated by the SBOZ, and was written by Ricard St. Jassœmein in a state of situationist prank, hallucination, and sigilisation. If one would like to join the SBOZ, please email the last surviving member at severe.sboz@gmail.com. Please remember, the SBOZ does not exist, and neither does its members.
To access The Oneiriad and to support this author/evocator, you can buy any of the volumes from gumroad for £0+. Any donations appreciated for further manifestation.
The girl has been identified as Sarah Bastille, per the amanuensis, who is Sarah Bastille. Why he made me write that I don’t know.
https://www.academia.edu/44730999/Perpetuus_In_Umbra_On_The_Htupsi_and_their_Absence_of_Language
https://nathantdean.gumroad.com/l/oneiriadtwo?layout=profile
The amanuensis would like to note he is delirious today, from the heat
Sarah Bastille presents this spotify link from her phone as a final clue. It came on when she returned on the bus. She showed Marc Gandweil the track the next day and for an hour he was quiet. This is unprecedented.