We are the new circus.
There: let them stare. There’s no charge for the eyeing of our scars. There’s nothing they have that we want. Their children are already ours. (He whispers “no,” but shoves himself down on my finger up to the third knuckle) (wonder if I’ll get my ring back...) Our future is assured.
Lift the lid and see that the flowers in the dustbin have finally taken root: droves of queer children in warpaint roam the streets like packs of sex-crazed hyaenas. Like mandrake at the bottom of a gallows, we have flourished unchecked because they never do their homework. Because we have been ridiculed we are buoyed by the civilized world—getting stronger. We easily feed off the surplus fat of the cities and dream to see them starved into submission. We have finally realised that the thief’s trick is not to trade, but to take things away, starving people of our beauty. Hoarding. Recording. (he taps on the lens of an old video camera and says, “this is an experiment.”) We have a history this time.
Play—the first of the New Rules. Next...
Once And For All: There Is No Scene. There is no membership activity. We’ve all done our time with the punks, the goths, the crusties, club scenes, art scenes, galleries, grebos and factories. You name it. We’ve done the tattoos, the hairdos, the scars, and the steel till we all looked alike. Communist meetings, Anarchist rallies, potlucks, back rooms, witch circles; all the underground credentials you could want.... Having now safely returned to the helm we can report: there wasn’t really anybody there. Despite genial perversions, bright markings and self-avowed mutilations, we were still starved for the compassionate ones. (he cums in my mouth, calls me a “good citizen” and then tells me a story about a junkie). We were looking for the ones who wanted to begin.
This circus is as far-flung and varied as any cabaret. Infiltrating all areas. Infuriating people with our total inability to wear one disguise, to believe in one idea, or to take anybody’s word for anything. We truly cum and go as we please, from one circle to the next, taking only what we need. Scavengers from a school far larger than any small-minded cult of primitivism, theory, dogma, decadence, or sham. We are ageless jacks-of-all-trades; dilettantes, masters and examples. Please don’t be afraid: you will know each other by scent alone.
We are the new circus.
We are the envy of the fucking world.
Originally published in "This Is the Salivation Army," issue 8, 1999. Scott Treleaven is a Toronto-based artist, writer and filmmaker, best known for his zine-cum-film "The Salivation Army," listed by the "Village Voice" as one of the most notable underground films of 2002. His fiction and essays have been published internationally, and his collage work has recently been exhibited in New York, Los Angeles and Paris. Visit scotttreleaven.com for more.
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