Carnival Reprise

The Midnight Shows do not rely on the advertising principles of the Barnum and Bailey world, those carnival barker calls of a self-amassing audience, commands of “bring your family!” and “tell all your friends!”. Neither must the Midnight Shows depend on summons of a challenged worldview–that tempting seduction of “you must see it for yourself”--nor appeals to pride as “you won’t believe your eyes”. To glimpse behind the curtains of the Midnight Shows is as removed from your control as winning the lottery; you may beg and plead to hold a ticket in your hands, yet never be able to supplicate one into your possession. Or, perhaps, you may evade it; you may wince away from that splintered door and basement stairs, but never be able to escape your summons. Because it does summon you, and sooner or later–be it by withering to a scorching curiosity, or unraveling due to that traveling show's relentless pursuit–you will find yourself basking in a spotlight’s glow, just as the moon basks in the rays of the sun. And as you reflect, you will know these things you watch unfold before you are wholly unlike pickled beasts in curio jars, or anomalies parading in a weathered tent, or any number of things you can merely shut your eyes to, or choose not to believe.

Prompted by no law of nature or government, but by your own humanity, you cannot look away from the freaks of the Midnight Shows; they are a tendril of smoke and perfume, gone the instant your scrambling senses can take them in. Regardless of your intent, whether you’ve waited for this moment since your memory’s surpassing, or whether you were brought to this place with a will apart from your own, you know this will be your only chance to comprehend these horrors that you see. Tomorrow, your ticket will be spent, your chance will be wasted, and even if you break through the door to cross that threshold once again, there will be nothing that remains: no sign of life, cigarette haze, speck of glitter, or even a footprint in the dust of a building floor that appears to have been abandoned for many years past. The Live Forever Carnival, and the Midnight Shows, do not exist; never have they existed, and to you, unless you are as a man struck twice by lightning, they will never exist again.

As you become certain of all of this–that these feathered sirens, faceless freaks, and vagrant visions you see before you reek of facsimile–you assure yourself, through the growing uneasiness of a sound you cannot hear and cannot perceive through brass and ivory, that these are merely costume jewelry behind museum glass. But the Midnight Shows can sense your assurance–it’s what they’ve waited for–and just as your insecurities have been assuaged, something in the air will change. One more man will make his way onto the stage–having and needing no introduction–and with his advent, all of your assurance is snuffed out; he isn’t a man, and against any flaming torch of reason or pitchfork of expectation you could wave in his face, you know, with more certainty than you know you yourself live and breathe, that whatever he is, he is real. In his presence, before the smoke of your arrogance can waft away, you begin to question everything that was merely costume jewelry to you a moment before, just as you’d agonize over a thousand plastic pearls already counted if, beneath the rest, you found one to be real; priceless.

So, comprehend these things while you can, and if you believe you are able. The curtains are drawn; after this night, they will close, and everything you could not bear, and could not understand, will be shut with them–trapped as dust particles in velvet fibers. Here is your ticket. To you who have sought this as a holy grail, are you certain of what you expect? And, to you who have been pursued to this moment, your concession: We are ever so eager to see you.