I had had a bad dream, one of those vivid ones that so impresses itself upon your mind that they are impossible to forget. Usually, for me, they have to do with some sort of tragedy that affects and injures me directly; I become paralyzed, people in my family are tortured and killed, or other such personal tribulations.

Last night, however, I had a nightmare of philosophy, of an abstract idea, and it chilled me to the bone.

It might seem at first blush that my dream was more similar to nightmares of personal pain, for I dreamt that a friend of mine from high school had died in a freak car accident. And while it is true that this concept scared and saddened me, what I found more affecting, and what my brain decided to focus on as I slept, was the idea that with her death, the world had lost an artistic genius.

I was forced by my dream to reflect upon the idea that I had directly experienced and been touched by the sort of person whose talent and work are truly exceptional. I had seen and talked and hugged and laughed and argued with a person whose ability is so great and yet seems so natural that it can make others certain of the existence of god, for it seems inconceivable to some that a person could have been the driving force behind what they had done.

Just as I felt honored and excited by the idea that I had been exposed to someone so rare and so precious, my brain brought me crashing back into pain and sorrow by reminding me that genius is just as fragile, if not more so, than the mediocre.

I woke up wishing that I didn’t have to live in a world where those who are of greater mind than I can perish, where with a single accident or poor choice the world loses not only a life that is precious in and of itself, but also a cornucopia of potential works of genius.

My brain showed me the nightmare image of a body, and every potential work of genius that it could create, being consumed by flame.

It’s an idea that will haunt me to my last.

Because of the principle of risk vis a vis reward, great tribulation and sacrifice necessarily incur a greater likelihood of earthly reward. Those who donate a substantial sum to a charity are likely to receive immense social benefits. But to endure an annoyance where there is no benefit is a genuine indicator of strength and lack of moral turpitude.

Though I believe not in heaven nor hell nor grand judgment, I am moved by this philosophy to try to work through life’s annoyances with grace and humility. For just as the annoyances ostensibly offer the greatest personal reward, so too can they eat away at us and cause the greatest personal emotional destruction. So take this and be refreshed with a sense of perspective. We could all stand to relax and not sweat the small stuff.

I became, through no fault of my own, a Carny.

I suppose that it was inevitable; my parents collected and researched the history of antique carousels. My nursery room wallpaper was carousel patterned. Our house was packed to the rafters with carousel memorabilia, , pictures, posters, models, and even a number of actual antique wooden carousel animals. It seems fitting that I should have one day taken a job as a carousel operator at a local zoo.

By accepting that job, I was unwittingly joining the hundred year old fraternity of the gap-toothed and bitter Masters of Amusement. And though it is strange for me to be a part of a group wherein, by virtue of simply having all of my teeth, limbs, and digits, I am considered one of the more attractive of the bunch. I took to the responsibilities of my order like a duck to water by nearly immediately becoming a depressed shell of my former self. Admittedly, this was not hard. What I thought were vast reservoirs of happiness in my soul were in actuality shallow pools of self-hate and the perverse pleasure of the knowledge that I had been severely overvalued as I was growing up. This is what the internal emotional landscape of all young thespians like me looks like. Therefore I say, “Actors, beware!”

All entertainers must wage a continuous war on the despair and malaise that accompanies amusement, the sadness that necessarily arises from continuous exposure to joy. Like the navigators in the sci-fi novel Dune who are submerged to deformity in the drug that enables interstellar travel, so too are entertainers twisted by their submersion in amusement. Some, like actors, are rewarded handsomely for their self-flagellation. Others, like myself, must search for their own meaning and treasure in their trials.

At least, I can say, I am not a juggler.

My job is a rarity in this day and age in the fact that it has remained unchanged for nearly a hundred years. Carousel operators at the turn of the last century dealt with just as many crying children and idiotic adults as I do. The only difference, that I can perceive is that they would have seen significantly more hats and ties than I do, and considerably fewer examples of clothing from Baby Gap.

Their misery must have been the same as mine, arising as it does from the repetitive, monotonous work, the numbing music, and the exposure to the worst of the pleasure-seeking public. But I like to imagine that they found their moments of joy in the same place that I do, in those few gems of personal interaction where people are at their most good. They are rare indeed, but that makes it all the sweeter when someone looks you in the eye and says, “Thank you for helping me to have such a wonderful time with my child.” To see a child pet and kiss a wooden horse is to be reminded of the possibilities of childhood, the simplicity of enjoyment and the willingness to pretend. And to see a grandparent reminisce about the carousel of their youth, and to share those memories with their grandchildren, can warm even the darkest heart.

And though I struggle day by day through the boredom and depressing introspection of my job, I am kept motivated by these small moments of happiness. No one forgets their carousel, the good times they have as a child with their favorite horse, with Mom and with Dad, and with Grandma and Grandpa. It is my job to help make those memories happen, to disappear into the background, a stagehand for the cherished moments of their life.

Everyone remembers their carousel.

Maybe someone will remember me.