Mischief Opera

It is a universal of human experience. From the womb we make silly contorted faces, force smiles, nod maniacally, roll our eyes dramatically, and stretch our pliant skin over the armature of our bones to express our complex, deeply held emotions. I am a rubber-faced clown. I have never been verbal owing to a shock in my childhood. Every emotion I have ever wanted to communicate I have interpreted through flexing my rubber face. Before I had mastered the techniques of my tragicomic art, I was sent by my family to study under that old master of non-verbal communication Marceau - except I never don white paint or tights or opera make-up to share my feelings. Instead of writing these lines I could describe my thoughts in a repertoire of mime. There is no greater pleasure than the memory of making faces with my friend Xia, whose family were likewise flummoxed by her refusal to speak. Exiled to the back seat as our parents sped across mountain ranges from snaking autobahn to autobahn to see the next specialist who might cure our ailment we terrorized innocent truck drivers for days on end. Some laughed, some cried. Some, the burliest of them, threw bouquets of kisses at our silent opera.