Comedy and laughter are complicated.

Christopher Fry, one of the most celebrated playwrights of the mid-20th century, describes the Person of Comedy as the following image: the tears of laughter running down the face, one hand still pointing to that which so nearly contained the answer, the lips about to frame the great revelation only to find it has gone.¹  He calls comedy a narrow escape into faith, capturing eternity in a moment.

To understand this brief escape, imagine the utter bliss of losing yourself in a laugh.  Slow your pursuit for money, power, fame, and spend more time cultivating your sense of humour.  It doesn’t hurt anyone.  And it’ll get you through tough times better than anything else.

A friend once told me that my laugh sounded like Scooby Doo.  I’ve been lucky that past girlfriends have found my girlie giggle somewhat endearing.  But I’ve always wanted a belly laugh.  To connect laughter deep down in my core.  To spread infectious laughter to others.  Nothing can bond people like an inviting, full bodied laugh.  I laugh a lot, but it’s usually internalized.  I give myself to a laugh at most once a month.  These are blissful moments: nothing else matters, and I’m either doubled over or flopping around on the ground. 

Earlier this year I asked my theatre prof to help me develop a deeper laugh.  She didn’t know what to tell me. 

1.  Robert W. Corrigan ed., “Comedy” Comedy: Meaning and Form.  1981, Harper & Row, pp. 17-19

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