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<\/figure>\n\n\n\nThis character was looking at me. He was a character, but he was also a person. He was looking at me, and pointing at me. He was looking at me, and pointing at me, and smiling at me, with that painted-on smile that I was not able to interpret. Was this a happy face? What was the intention behind this painted-on smile? Was I supposed to smile along? I did not feel like smiling along. I did not trust this character. I did not trust this person.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was looking at me, and pointing at me, and smiling at me, and saying, over and over again, “You\u2026, you\u2026, you\u2026, you\u2026,” and laughing. And laughing. And laughing. “You\u2026, you\u2026, you\u2026”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I felt my eyes widen, and my breath catch, and then rush in in a big rush, and an electric feeling of terror, and I screamed\u2026
I awoke screaming. Someone came and got me, and picked me up and hugged me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And that was it. That’s the end of the memory. I can still recall it like it happened yesterday. I have described this dream to each of my parents, and as far as I can tell, I was maybe 2 or 3 years old, judging by the description of the space. The clown form in my memory is the clown from a box of straws (you might recognize it), and I remember that box being in the house, and I remember being confused that the clown from my dream was on the box of straws.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As an adult, I can totally enjoy clowns, slapstick body-humor, the thrill of the unknown intention, and of the obscured identity. But it is an enjoyment that is a bit like enjoying the feeling of jumping into a hole in the ice of a frozen lake, having almost drowned once, and having trained oneself to get past the initial reaction of panic as one’s body is engulfed in bitingly cold water.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"