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The high-wire
artist risks his life
to please the crowd, for fame, the thrill of danger, and the pleasure of performing feats that few can do. We risk our lives, and souls, for motives much the same, plus the heady feel of being next to power, even wielding some ourselves. We take as many casualties, maybe more. The names of those who die, in gold and silver, are posted on the press club wall. Others we carry quietly, or just ignore until they are encountered in the bar-- burned-out relics of too many wars. You see, you cannot go on bathing in the world's violence unscathed, touch so many people's pain and grief and not be burned. Tell me you could look into a hundred children's eyes, dark, huge with uncomprehending pain and hunger, and purge yourself of all you feel in a thousand words or so. So we grow our shells. Those who can't don't last. Some grow them all too well-- the cynical, abrasive ones who cannot feel. Perhaps they never could. They count their coups in front-page headlines, and pay in other ways. Most of us just try to keep our balance, like the man up on the wire, eyes fixed straight ahead, never daring to look down. by Terry Anderson
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Copyright
© 1999 Terry Anderson |
