Masques, Personae, Prisons

In the basement, there on the wall, is a mask colored in green and gold. It is of a cat’s face, filigreed and beaded. There are satin ribbons in the same shades as the cheeks. It is flanked by two dark green metal candle holders which support thick, squat pillars of wax so green as to be almost black. The mask was purchased in New Orleans, from a small shop specializing in all things Mardi Gras. The mask cost about $90, which sounds like a lot for such an object until it is realized the wall of masks around it contains bigger, flashier masks costing easily twice as much and more. Money was not particularly scarce, but it was New Orleans after all; there was a whole universe of food and drink to be pursued as well. The price of the mask satisfied any concerns about quality against affordability, and was deemed very attractive.

The mask stares out from the wall, shadows cast by the light from above. It gives the impression of secrets kept, lovers entertained, revelry enjoyed. There is a slight hint of debauchery about its green-gold countenance. If it had a mouth it would be smiling like the Mona Lisa.

The truth is the mask has never been worn for any real purpose. The longest time it spent covering a human face was for approximately two minutes in a fit of silliness, while awaiting the tack driven into to the wall, upon which it now hangs. This perhaps speaks of pathos. A mask created to obscure the identity of someone who wishes to retain some anonymity while engaging in risqué behavior on a street heavy with the perfume of hurricanes, and sadly saw no action.

The mask hangs there, metallic and silently mocking. Sarcastic chuckling faint in the cool air.

Slight shame rises to the cheeks in consideration of the failure to actually use the mask. A belated realization that perhaps a certain amount of fearlessness is required to don such a creation. Why is that, the mind wonders. Ah, of course. By donning such a mask, the wearer is in some measure advertising the fact that something is wished to remain hidden. The mind considers the apparent paradox: if one dons a mask to hide something, why make it known that something is hidden? Is it not the purpose of hiding to avoid scrutiny or detection?

Wait, no, that is only part of the story. This mask was meant to be worn in the company of other like-minded individuals. It signals admittance to a community, a group of “partners-in-crime” who are willing to let another in on the joke. “Welcome, brother!” they exclaim, all bright beads and shimmering feathers, “Join us in our escape! Sin with us!” Such gaiety extended with a wink and a nod as much as to say it is understood that all humans have certain desires and the same yearning to unleash, at least for a short while, things normally held tightly close.

Bemusement. Regret. The knowledge that for some, freedom of that sort has always been contemplated from behind a wall of glass, rippled and thick. It is enough to make one sigh heavily and wonder why it is so difficult to let go of oneself long enough to actually enjoy life in a way that so many others do. It isn’t as if getting drunk and dancing around a streetlight once in a lifetime is going to translate into perpetual debauchery. In a crowd of people all wearing masks of many colors and shapes, one more worn quietly will surely not stand out. If anything, the lack of a mask would be a surefire attention getter.

Still, the thought of wearing such a creation engenders intense feelings of discomfort. Donning a mask would draw attention, no matter what. Attention, while craved, has not been pursued. Attracting attention has always meant demands upon the self. There will always be the pressure to live up to the attention, give as much if not more in return. This is anathema to a persona not comfortable with presenting itself to scrutiny by the outside world.

An exquisite joke, is it not? The mind that feels it necessary to shield itself from the eyes of others is nervous and fearful of wearing something created for the purpose of hiding something from others. Yes, of course, this makes perfect sense, as rueful laughter bubbles up. “I feel uncomfortable displaying myself to the world; therefore, I shall not wear masks!” The faint metallic scent of irony pervades the room.

Wait, perhaps this does make sense. The mind is sly like a fox, you see. The mind feels it needs to hide its true self in order to meet the world. By donning an actual mask, it would advertise something is hidden. This would attract attention. In order to avoid scrutiny, to deflect attention, it would be better to not wear a mask. It is easier, in some ways, to just wear one’s given face, plain and simple. It is less noticeable, if one cares to make the effort. Thus, the face acts as a mask, it just doesn’t appear as one.

Aha. A light goes off in the mind. Now the source of the growing discomfort has been identified. The mask glitters, watching and inscrutable. A gnawing sensation suffered for years reveals itself in a flash of insight like the slow cracking of a bird’s egg under pressure from a beak.

The face has become the mask.

A hot flush to the neck, up into cheeks that feel like melting stone. The shield has been maintained for so many years, the act perpetuated, that the face no longer remembers how to reflect the interior life it covers. The core human being has become trapped behind the very thing that sought to protect it. This core, this life cannot get out. It cannot reveal itself except through occasional glimpses in the eyes and verbal outbursts of shaking intensity that leave the owner drained and ashamed. The face became a mask became a prison.

This is why the mask on the wall reaches out and caresses the heart with cool fingers, laughing softly into the ear all the while. The mask knows its purpose, knows that all people have things they feel scared to reveal, even if those things are a true self, worthy of sharing the light of humanity. The mask itself is not scared of its true nature.

Alone in the cool dimness of the basement, the face cracks and dissolves in a flood of salt water, mystified and relieved to know that it no longer has to be afraid of itself, even after all these years. The hands reach up and gently pull the sodden shards away, fluttering to the floor like wet leaves.

The mask and the face gaze upon one another, and smile.