'The Clandestine Insurgent Rebel Clown Army or CIRCA is a UK-based left-wing anti-authoritarian activist group that uses the ancient traditions of clowning combined with the modern art of non violent direct action to challenge corporate globalisation, war and other things they see as injustices.' (Wikipedia)

'CIRCA aims to make clowning dangerous again, to bring it back to the street, restore its disobedience and give it back the social function it once had: its ability to disrupt, critique and heal society. Since the beginning of time tricksters (the mythological origin of all clowns) have embraced life's paradoxes, creating coherence through confusion - adding disorder to the world in order to expose its lies and speak the truth.

The rebel clowns that make up CIRCA embody life's contradictions, they are both fearsome and innocent, wise and stupid, entertainers and dissenters, healers and laughing stocks, scapegoats and subversives.'

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'We are clandestine because we refuse the spectacle of celebrity and we are everyone. Because without real names, faces or noses, we show that our words, dreams, and desires are more important than our biographies. Because we reject the society of surveillance that watches, controls, spies upon, records and checks our every move. Because by hiding our identity we recover the power of our acts. Because with greasepaint we give resistance a funny face and become visible once again.

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The lines in the curved rock by the misted lake read like hieroglyphics here, the sky is high and even in the dark the space feels so wide I am afraid I will lose my balance. the scent of the silent pines reminds me I am a stranger in this place, I wonder if the woods are suspicious of me, or curious – I sense them watching, waiting

Inside the candles and the bundles of coloured wool light up the third fika* of the day from the edges and people push in from the outside, their breath is steam and their words are a strange kind of ancient music, it brings the wide night inside

And dreams are whispered in the corners here, they say there is treasure buried in the snow-capped mountains to be carried down and there are old rumours being lifted out of the soil there… perhaps these are all a part of some bigger shalom fractal, seeping south, out of the ground... maybe.

Sometimes you have to leave to be able to come back.

* genius Swedish coffee break with coffee, homecooked sweetstuff and conversation…
 

i wonder if living the chaos in all its fulness, if letting go with only the boundedness of recognising who we are becoming
is a bit like skiing full pelt down an arctic glacier, where the white-skinned slopes are dreams of art never penned, and the ice-wind swallowing your head is a million different entangled strains of music, and the powdered galaxies stretched into the black night sky overhead are faces and eyes of the extraordinary multitude of humans who walk this earth...