THE REMIX:
LONG DAYS
October 23rd, 1942
This is the journal of Detective Mitch Caldwell. Still no sign of the clown.
I have spent long days along the roads, back roads and highways, roads of dust and concrete, roads bent and vibrating in the heat.
I have watched many long days in the station wagon, legs and heads flopped from the windows, the back windows kicked out and exploded into dust for the bugles and ruffles of a hundred Pierrot’s, their long red shoes and polka dots.
I have traveled long days now hurtling along, lost in the vibrations of gestures, lost within the vibration of my mind.
And I am still no closer to finding him.
I have rested long nights around campfires.
I have sat long nights in the shadows of flames and against the heat of those flames and I saw white face paint dripping from the chins and lips, beaded on noses.
I have learned during long nights around campfires from the gestures from Pierrot to Pierrot.
And I have dreamed for long nights of Pierrot, locked inside of invisible boxes trapped and wailing soundlessly.
Of Pierrot suspended from the invisible trees and invisible ropes.
Of Pierrot ascending stairs and descending stairs.
Of Pierrot gesturing the gristly aftermath of death by Russian Roulette.
I have listened to long nights of Pierrot laughing soundlessly.
And I fear I will never get closer to finding him
I am told stories of long nights of those camped in clearings.
I am enthralled and entranced by stories of long nights recollecting the company of animals, the snores and howling of brown bears and basset hounds, caged and shackled, leashed and sedated. The warmth of the animals. The brilliance.
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November 14th, 1942
I haven’t had time to keep up with my journal entries. I have been hitting snags during my quest to find Pierrot.
And I am still no closer
I have traveled long days along the roads and this time no animals but those mounded and fly-swaddled.
Time has been wasted as I have used long days to train the un-trainable, tossing decayed coyotes and underhanded through blazing hoops, whipping and chastising.
Yet I still don’t get answers
I have lost myself in longs nights on the road into the ravines, wondering wordlessly how far they had traveled and where they were going. I spend so much time wondering I find myself forgetting to consult the map.
Of course they now traveled those forests beyond the forests of maps.
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December 19th, 1942
I need help, so I begin to recruit.
Friends and colleagues spend long days searching and their numbers dwindle in the nights
I’m captivated by long days of polka dotted search parties edging the forest, the mounds and sticks and leaves just across the threshold.
Finally something shows he was here.
We find evidence that Pierrot spent long days hunched and digging in the dust of fields for bones, bones of sparrows, gophers, and even human. We try and piece it together.
He wasn’t here for long.
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January 3rd, 1943
We are in the city now. This place has deteriorated into bricks and dust and shards of glass.
A city of flatbed trucks.
A city of windows punched out and fire escapes rusted.
A city smeared with graffiti, and of buildings boarded over with long ago rotten planks.
A city whose proudest buildings are those what we would call burned out husks.
How know Pierrot has walked past all of the things I see before me, I believe him to still be here.
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January 4th, 1943
I have a new theory. Perhaps Pierrot was never taken. Perhaps instead he is lost.
Lost now within a city of dense and white sound, crackling and humming.
Lost in a city of wide avenues filled with families smiling, the little boys on their fathers shoulders, while mother was quiet in her flowered hair.
I believed he wanted to go home. Life on the road with a circus made me lose touch with his family and he wanted to go home. Life in the circus has made him feel lost.
Pierrot is lost now and wandering into fallen apart doors of apartment buildings and malt shops, the bones of rats in the moss’d and torn stools.
Lost in the houses not collapsed, the cobwebbed bedrooms of children long ago grown or dead.
Although lost, he is here.
Lost now and napping on dusted davenports and Pierrot lost and expanding shadowed puppets against the water stained wallpaper.
Lost along corridors and within the shadows and water smears of wilted walls.
Lost and yet how the vibrations of a long ago voice pulled him along.
After searching or many long days and nights, I found him
I found him in an old bedroom of an old house
A room of shadows and ammonia.
A room of humming voices
A room that rocks against strong winds
A room with windows that are bricked over.
He laid on broken bed with a portrait of a woman and child in one hand looking mindlessly at the ceiling. I sat him up and he looked at me with half a mind. From his pocket fell the last shreds and tatters from the letter. His wheeze told me that he could feel the last of his crumbling membrane. “Oh”, he said, “she was alive yet she sat before me”. I couldn’t understand the guy, so I asked him the first thing that came to my head, “ Was she beautiful?” I asked with a smile and laugh.
He wept.
Soon after than he laid back down and never again sat up. I sat there for a while and finally picked up the letter. It was from Pierrot’s family. They were in desperate need of him to return home, but due to a contract he couldn’t leave, so he ran and got himself lost.
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Remixer’s process (1): I asked Vanessa Ramos if she would provide a remix of “The Clown Show”. Vanessa, ever quick to educate, assigned the assignment to her creative writing class. After a tight contest, Cory Lahue’s noir mix “Long Days” was chosen as the standout in Vanessa’s class.
Remixer’s process (2): The first time I read this paid attention to the structure. To me it almost seemed as though it was being narrated by Clark Gable or Cary Grant from an old 40’s movie. I pictured the voice to be rugged and deep. This is what led me to the idea of having a detective keep a journal of trying to find a missing clown. The second time reading it I realized how much I really enjoyed the language. I felt there was an awesome contrast between beauty and morbid images. This is what led to me structure. I liked how the phrases “Long Day” “Long Night” and “Lost” were constantly used, so in my remix I wanted to highlight this repetition. I feel that it contributed to the mood of the piece.
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Cory Lahue is an aspiring freelance writer who is living the life in Lynn, MA. As of now he primarily writes flash fiction and short stories. This is his first publication.