BlackNotBlack.com

I Want To Be a Firejuggler

Today, for the first time, I began to suspect I’ve taken a wrong turn in life. I’m a writer, and while that is a useful skill which allows me to communi-
cate with the .01% percent of the population who read, it does not generate much in the way of instant validation. I toil alone late into the night, in a room lit by the glow of my flatscreen monitor, while in other

rooms, in other parts of town, musicians, actors, poets, and singers bask in applause. What I would give for some applause. Even painters and photographers receive instant validation in the form of gallery openings. Michelangelo worked on his back in the Sistine Chapel for years and was quite possibly miserable every millisecond of that time—but then came the day he unveiled his masterpiece and the gasps of awe from those assembled healed his pain like a balm.

I’ve decided that the only way I can satisfy my jones for exhibitionism and reap the free love I’m missing is to take up a performance medium. Firejuggling is a possible answer (“firejuggle” is a mutant verb I’ve constructed, just for the fuck of it, because, to my thinking, it’s more majestic as one word than two). You may be asking, Why firejuggling? Well, for one reason I can juggle already. I can only juggle three approximately spherical objects of the same basic diameter and weight, and only for twenty to thirty seconds, but the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Compelling reason numero dos: firejugglers are the ultimate in cool. They travel from place to place and work when they want to, usually at night, and for tax-free money. Sometimes the police hassle them, but that’s a small price to pay, considering the alternatives (office work, restaurant work, retail work). They sometimes smell bad, but they drink life like a fine syrah and that’s the only bouquet that matters.

Firejugglers are often Argentinian, I’ve noticed, or Spanish, or French. Why? Beats the shit out of me. I’ve met a few American firejugglers too, and they tend to go by monikers such as Red Sparks or Max Heat. I am inclined to roll my eyes at this cheesiness, but on the other hand the entire cosmos got used to ridiculous pseudonyms like Tom Cruise and Angelina Jolie —which means “pretty” in French—so who am I to rake Mssrs. Sparks and Heat over the coals? Let the names roll off your tongue a few times and they’ll start to sound better. Now try this one—Xanadu Black. That’s the pseudonym I’m considering for myself. It doesn’t have anything to do with fire, but I’m drawing a blank on how to work that element in right now.

During my research into this possible career makeover, I noticed that another cool thing about firejuggling is that it’s a great gateway toward mastering other invaluable skills, such as unicycling and stiltwalking. These can be combined, of course, so that you are a unicycling firejuggler or stiltwalking firejuggler. Multitasking like this is not as hard as it sounds. I saw the firejuggler at top in downtown Lisbon, and when my too-close approach caused his five dogs to boot from sleep mode into maul mode, he managed to call them off without dropping a single baton.

Right now I’m trying to find a firejuggler who will train me. Preferably one reckless enough to train me to sling fire indoors, like my friend above, from Guatemala. One of the links I’ve located is for a comedy firejuggler named Keith Leaf (again with the oh-so-cool names). His website—hilarious in itself—states: “The dynamic juggling act that Keith Leaf presents consists of fire juggling, dance, and manipulation.” I confess I am especially curious about the manipulation. The site goes on to say: “You’ll laugh, you'll cry, most of all you'll wonder why, because he is Keith Leaf, the Amazing Fire Juggler guy.” Right now a nation of rappers are smiting their brows in envy.

I know what you’re thinking, and no, I’m not letting the romance of this lifestyle blind me to its potential hazards. Some of the fuels used are carcinogenic, but fuck it—what isn’t? Some of you smoke. There is the danger of being robbed trekking those deserted roads from town to town. There are ticks. There is crotch-rot. But it’s the applause that matters most to me. The blessed applause—I can hear it now. Once I’ve perfected my act as Xanadu Black I’ll hit the streets and it’s bye-bye computer forever. No more wringing myself like a rag to dribble words onto an indifferent page. No more lonely nights. Only freedom, and flames, and endless ovations.

Labels: fire juggling, lisbon, the amazing keith leaf

posted by Egan Ehlers @ 5:48 PM