[31] Tournelle du Soleil • MONTRÉAL–TORONTO• May 20~22 (Patreon)

Sergey glances up from his mountain of papers and gives me the closest thing he makes to a smile.

"That's it for me," I say.   

"You are done now?"  

"Yep. Back to Toronto for a week and then the show is the week after, in Brooklyn."  

"They took the act?"  It never occurred to me that they might not take it. If it was bad enough.

"Uh– yes," I say.  He nods. Good. Stands up. Wraps me up in a big bear hug. I squeeze back, hard as I can.  "Can we train handstands together later this summer?"  

He nods curtly. I smile back. "Thanks, Sergey."

May 20, 2023
Driving home from Montréal. The rain is a solid sheet beating down against my windshield. Ominous banks of fog loom on either side of the highway, hemmed in by the ditches that border the farmers' fields. A lacrosse ball jammed between my back and the seat. I've got the seat-heaters on high. My back is unequivocally strained. It'll be fine. 

I want to feel hopeful. Happy. Buoyant. I want my mind to open up as the road unfurls in front of me. My left thumb jabs the skip track button on the steering wheel control. Skip. Skip. If I can just find the right song. Trigger the right emotional cascade.

It doesn't come. I feel flat. Neutral. I maybe feel something like...satisfaction, though. Other thoughts drift in instead.

Would I like this kind of life instead?

Could I have this kind of life instead?

Would it be better than the chaos and unknown of film life?

What if I was to go on a big tour?

What if someone offered me a job further away, for longer?

Could I take it? Should I take it? Would I like it?

With the WGA writers strike in the United States and Hollywood producers in no rush to come to the table while they write off all their losses and scoop up all their tax breaks, It could be a long, long while before anyone is making big kid money in the film industry again.Films, maybe. Producers must have stacks of those written and waiting to be turned into something. But streaming, episodic programs– that won’t be happening anytime soon.  

I complain about my film and television work to my close friends, too. I rarely have anything positive to say about it. Then, after, I feel tortured that I have nothing more positive to say about it.

I feel diminished and jaded about the arbitrariness of who climbs and who doesn’t.

Training and hard work doesn’t necessarily translate to more or bigger opportunities. It's more about luck. Timing. Connections.

The same can be said of circus work, but the relationship between hard-work-put-in and opportunities-that-come-out-of-that seem marginally more connected to one another. Circus isn’t a secure job, either. One injury can mean terrible things for a performing career. But this past week at Cirque IHQ felt like a glimmer of something...different. Better? Life in the arts feels so chaotic.  This week brought structure. Routine. Support.

I don’t know. We’ll see.

May 22, 2023
Toronto. Back in studio. Handstands to warm up. Flexibility. Visualize the act. Run the act. Close your back. Straps re-conditioning.Here we go.  

God, I need to get my strength and conditioning back up. The room blurs and tilts and multiplies when I stop spinning. I wait for it to resolve. This is taking forever.  My spin tolerance is gone and I'll have to recondition it.

My spin forms an invisible column of force around my body. Changing positions requires finesse and precision. Finding the narrow openings in the spiral. Creating new geometries and angles. Too fast, or at the wrong moment, and you bounce off the force instead, richocheting yourself out of the spin. I close my eyes. My body slides and slices through space. Navigating by feeling alone.  

I'm woozy, but it feels good to go fast. To play with the wind on my face. The way the force of the spin tugs on my limbs. My brain feels the way fresh laundry smells.

I switch to the other arm. I keep pushing. Faster. Faster.

My heart pounds against the inside of my ribcage.

I switch amsr again. Find a new, tiny window of opportunity in the swirl of my fast spin to cross one leg over the other.

Interesting. A new shape.

I reach for the other leg. I want to cross it over the other one while I spin.  

POP.  

A ferocious CRACK echoes violently across the studio.
White blooms with it.
Pain.
The white is pain.
Oh.
FUCK.

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Your next instalment of Tournelle du Soleil arrives Monday at 7am EST / 1pm CEST!

Until then, stay strange and wonderful - XO, ess