away unexpectedly. People are talking, some directly to me, others hush-hushedly, an audience for my stage. The dearest of souls try to slip their careful fingers under the edges saying, “What’s wrong? Are you okay? You can tell me…” When, finally, I am home and alone, I lay myself down so that it will rest on my face. I shut-in when the glue is too wicked with moisture to stick. It is then that my projections are the closest to becoming a reality.
It is a mask of death. Like any good artist, the maker of it has hid the theme in its subtleties. In the way the jaw is not held together but, just barely, dropped. In the way the eyes remain stationary, held in a state of defense, avoiding a focus on an external reality, on other human beings. In the way the brow and the cheeks are stagnant, without expression, wholly unanimated. In the way it conceals the whimpers of my breath in a curve that constructs long sighs instead. In the way it is not banded about the back of the head but instead it is daily glued into place. In the way it is crafted to be a kind of beautiful and it exhibits such a careful allocation of workmanship that its audience concedes there is some great meaning behind it, but only the artist will ever know its truth. Some note stoicism. Some note determination. Some note raw certainty. Some note defiance. Some note that it allows him to see past the physical world into places unseen. Some note it is indeed well crafted and fits him perfectly. Some note that it has a balance of the grotesque and the sublime (some just say it’s beautiful and ugly). Some note it shows resilience and strife simultaneously. Some note it has aged well, that it seems to have eroded into a truer form. A few note that it is failing.
At some point, the mask will slip from me. At that moment a choice must be made: I can show the world my face or I can show them what’s inside my mask. The face I show could be characterized by a whole spectrum of what it means to be human. I can only choose a few things. To choose too many would exhaust me, especially so soon when I would still be acclimating. The mask itself contains a wide spectrum of possible exhibitions. There, too, I can only choose a few, for only a few truths could be endured by those who love me.
I show my face. I say, “Look here, at my human face. It is endearing and kind. See these lines of worry? They are the love in me showing. And, my smile? It is not held easily but I’ve no choice, or very little at least, but I am intent on lifting its corners and living. I intend to spread this contagious face.” After I lift the mask from me, they say, “We know this face. We knew that this was not truly you but it would be inhuman to ridicule your expression. We honor your decisions. We know that, despite everything, you love us, that you are loving. We trust you, Ryan, and we believe in you. We know you will go on to do amazing things. We’ve seen that strong part of you, that determination before, and we know it is in you, that it is a big part of who you are.”
I show the mask, turning it around, exposing the interior and showing my own death drenched canvas. While I look at the front of the mask I say, “You decrepit thing! Why must I see your likeness so often worn on the faces of these people, of my loved ones? What causes your assembly? Will your crafty purport never end? I see you so often. On the train there was one. The bus, two. The classroom had one slipping. In the halls they were eerily common. On the streets I pass one every five minutes. At the bar. In the store. Behind the wheel. Coming out of the café. Behind a
It is a mask of death. Like any good artist, the maker of it has hid the theme in its subtleties. In the way the jaw is not held together but, just barely, dropped. In the way the eyes remain stationary, held in a state of defense, avoiding a focus on an external reality, on other human beings. In the way the brow and the cheeks are stagnant, without expression, wholly unanimated. In the way it conceals the whimpers of my breath in a curve that constructs long sighs instead. In the way it is not banded about the back of the head but instead it is daily glued into place. In the way it is crafted to be a kind of beautiful and it exhibits such a careful allocation of workmanship that its audience concedes there is some great meaning behind it, but only the artist will ever know its truth. Some note stoicism. Some note determination. Some note raw certainty. Some note defiance. Some note that it allows him to see past the physical world into places unseen. Some note it is indeed well crafted and fits him perfectly. Some note that it has a balance of the grotesque and the sublime (some just say it’s beautiful and ugly). Some note it shows resilience and strife simultaneously. Some note it has aged well, that it seems to have eroded into a truer form. A few note that it is failing.
At some point, the mask will slip from me. At that moment a choice must be made: I can show the world my face or I can show them what’s inside my mask. The face I show could be characterized by a whole spectrum of what it means to be human. I can only choose a few things. To choose too many would exhaust me, especially so soon when I would still be acclimating. The mask itself contains a wide spectrum of possible exhibitions. There, too, I can only choose a few, for only a few truths could be endured by those who love me.
I show my face. I say, “Look here, at my human face. It is endearing and kind. See these lines of worry? They are the love in me showing. And, my smile? It is not held easily but I’ve no choice, or very little at least, but I am intent on lifting its corners and living. I intend to spread this contagious face.” After I lift the mask from me, they say, “We know this face. We knew that this was not truly you but it would be inhuman to ridicule your expression. We honor your decisions. We know that, despite everything, you love us, that you are loving. We trust you, Ryan, and we believe in you. We know you will go on to do amazing things. We’ve seen that strong part of you, that determination before, and we know it is in you, that it is a big part of who you are.”
I show the mask, turning it around, exposing the interior and showing my own death drenched canvas. While I look at the front of the mask I say, “You decrepit thing! Why must I see your likeness so often worn on the faces of these people, of my loved ones? What causes your assembly? Will your crafty purport never end? I see you so often. On the train there was one. The bus, two. The classroom had one slipping. In the halls they were eerily common. On the streets I pass one every five minutes. At the bar. In the store. Behind the wheel. Coming out of the café. Behind a