by Ray Jason
 |
| How I will always think of her. |
This
was in 1971 when the American revival in street performing was just
beginning. Scattered about the sidewalks, one could find mimes and
singers and magicians. But there were no jugglers. I had learned
basic juggling at a summer camp in my early teens, and decided to put
together a little show to sustain me while I “got my head back
together.” My assumption was that this would require a few months,
and then I would settle into some sort of real job.
Fortunately, I never did settle into a real job, just as I never settled into the Real World. And the little gift that I mentioned above, helped steer me towards a contrary to ordinary life. It was bequeathed me at the first northern California Renaissance Faire, a dozen miles from San Francisco.
This was a miraculously magical event for both those who worked there and those who attended it. An Elizabethan village was created in a small oak forest and then filled with craftsmen and wandering entertainers and food vendors – and a goodly quantity of ale and mulled wine. Excellent actors portrayed leading roles like Queen Elizabeth and the Lord Mayor, and everyone wore appropriate and beguiling costumes.
This was a miraculously magical event for both those who worked there and those who attended it. An Elizabethan village was created in a small oak forest and then filled with craftsmen and wandering entertainers and food vendors – and a goodly quantity of ale and mulled wine. Excellent actors portrayed leading roles like Queen Elizabeth and the Lord Mayor, and everyone wore appropriate and beguiling costumes.
 |
| With my sweetheart Michelle at my gypsy wagon stage |
It
was a magnificent pageant that eventually spawned other Ren Faires
all over the U.S. and in other parts of the world. Decades later,
those of us who were there at the beginning, still feel blessed to
have been part of such a wonderful spectacle that was a cornucopia of
positives with almost no negatives.
Just
after finishing one of my shows, someone stepped up to drop something
into my hat, but it was not money, it was far more special. The
donor was part of the cast at the faire. She is a woman named
Shirley and she played a wandering jester who told stories. Because
she was touched by my performances, she had brought a book from her
personal library to pass along to me as a gift.
It was called Le
Jongleur du Notre Dame, which translates to The Juggler of Our
Lady. It was a retelling of a folk tale that has been preserved
down through the centuries and adapted into many book treatments as
well as operas and movies. Many versions use the magnificent
cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris as the setting for this story.
The
core narrative is that a simple juggler becomes disheartened by the
world and decides to escape the madness by joining a monastery.
Coming from such a different background, he doesn’t fit in with the
rest of the monks. This tension is heightened when everyone is
supposed to lay a gift at the feet of the statue of the Virgin Mary
on Christmas Eve.
Because
he has no present to bequeath the statue, he slinks away feeling
disheartened and alone. But later, after the other monks have left
the cathedral, he sneaks back in with his bag of juggling tricks and
does a heartfelt performance for the statue. According to the
legend, the Blessed Mother is delighted by his gesture and the statue
comes to life and bends down and wipes the sweat from his forehead
with part of her robe.
 |
| Superb painting by Glyn Warren Philpot 1928 |
Receiving
this gift from a stranger at the Renaissance Faire had a powerful
effect on me. I had viewed my street performing as an interlude to
tide me over until I figured out “what I wanted to do with my
Life.” But we early buskers were apparently having a far more
positive impact on our community than I anticipated. Suddenly, it
became clear that my sidewalk show could be more than a gig or a job,
it could be a vocation – something worth dedicating myself to.
And
for over 20 years that is what I did. My rewards during those
decades were immense. And they had almost nothing to do with money.
Many of us in that first generation of San Francisco street
performers became minor folk heroes in our community. And I’ll
take the respect of my neighbors over stardom every time.
*******
After
eight years of having honed my craft fairly well, I decided to
undertake a new challenge. Could I juggle my way around the world?
I left San Francisco with just a backpack and a small bag full of
tricks. About a year later I returned to San Francisco with more
money than I began with. And more importantly, I came back with an
assortment of adventures and memories that were priceless.
Never
forgetting how vital the gift of that little book had been to my life
path, I wanted to perform at the grand cathedral of Notre Dame in
Paris. And on the 29th of August 1979 that dream was
fulfilled. It was not one of my best shows, but it was particularly
heartfelt and meaningful to me. To the amazement of the audience, I
did not pass my hat.
That’s
because it was my payback gift that originated with the little book
that Shirley had passed along to me nearly a decade earlier. For 20
minutes I played the role of the struggling juggler, dwarfed by the
mighty cathedral and confused by this inscrutable world. The circle
was closed.
*******
And
now, forty years later, the circle is broken. Regardless of how puny
my connection to this magnificent church might be, it still wounded
me in a very deep place to see its roof and spire destroyed by flame.
Longtime
readers of my blog realize that my views on religion are paradoxical.
On the one hand, I emphasize the importance of seeking sacred
moments and paths in this tragic world that often seems like a
spiritual wasteland. And on the other hand, I vigorously criticize
the harm that institutionalized religions have wrought upon the
common man down the centuries.
But
Notre Dame is a symbol for much more than the Catholic faith. It is
a monument to Transcendence – to the unquenchable thirst
that we humans have for something above the mundane and the ordinary.
The fact that it took more than a century to complete the
construction, and that the original builders knew that even their
grandchildren would not finish it, is a psalm to the human need to
strive for divine aspirations.
Besides
its religious symbolism, Notre Dame is emblematic of another towering
human achievement – Civilization – and in particular Western and
European Civilization. It is full of great paintings and sculptures
and stained glass masterpieces. Its majestic organ has played some
of the most enduring liturgical music. It has witnessed the
coronation of Napoleon and because it is so revered by Christendom,
it was spared during both of the World Wars.
*******
But
there is a massive group that does not revere what Notre Dame
represents. And their antagonism is so pathological, that I would
not dare to perform my juggling act on the cathedral plaza today.
That is because I would fear that a suicide bomber might use the
annihilation of the innocent people in my audience as some form of
demented praise towards his god.
How
swiftly the world can change and how blind we can be to the unfolding
patterns even though they appear so obvious to some. Forty years
ago, when gathering my crowd beneath the mighty bell towers, I did
not even know what a jihadi was. And now I must be constantly alert
for their despicable behavior.
Grim
as this new reality is, what makes it even more unsettling and
baffling to me, is that this menace is not forcing its way into
France and Europe, it is being welcomed. But that is not quite
accurate. It is being encouraged by our so-called leaders, who I
prefer to describe as our Malignant Overlords. Predictably, our
rulers, who enact these policies, never have to suffer the
consequences of their decisions.
They
don’t lose their jobs to cheaper migrant labor, they don’t have
their taxes raised to pay for open-door social services for the “new
arrivals,” they never have to visit a “no-go zone,” they don’t
have to run the Champs Elysees tent city gauntlet, and their
daughters are never the ones getting raped.
But
they are the ones who will keep the press from reporting these rapes.
And they are the ones who will criminalize even the discussion of
these crimes - claiming that it is hate speech. And they are the
ones who will bask in the glow of virtue signaling as they welcome
these wartime refugees with open arms. Somehow they don’t seem to
notice how many of the supposed women and children fleeing
destruction, are actually able-bodied men.
My
theory on why these power addicts have imposed this enormous
immigration on their nations varies from day to day. On the really
bad, black pill days, it appears that they just hate their cultures
and are fulfilling the Kalergi Plan (google it up.)
On
more benign days, I suspect that they are just suffering from
Pathological Altruism. Despite the thousands of years of evidence
that disproves it, they somehow still believe in Universal
Brotherhood. That phrase always rouses a chuckle in me because I
once had a friend who would always respond to that utopian concept by
sneering, “Do you mean Universal Bullshithood?”
*******
I
still practice my juggling almost every day. My skill is remarkably
solid, considering the fact that I am now deep into my Middle Years.
The reason I do this is because some of my most-cherished memories
are from that around-the-world adventure. Juggling is a universal
language that transcends all borders. The smiles and amazement on
the faces of strangers in dozens of countries still warm me on those
cold nights of the soul.
Hopefully,
I will live long enough to see a world that is healed – a world
where children of all ages can safely enjoy a humble juggler.
Hopefully, we humans can again flourish on a planet where nobody
thinks of anyone else as … an infidel.
 | ||
| One of the many times the police "moved me along." This time in Hong Kong. |
Here is a little gift video for you my unknown readers. It deals with two themes from this essay - street performing and European culture. Enjoy.
