A Hall of Masks

Dear Meier,

                It is funny how our minds sketch out senses with people we do not know or have only met for a moment. We form the ideas of someone else and pour all the wise words we have into those senses. We make them perfect to win over a lover’s heart or defeat a foolish foe. We do this in the moments where we have to pass the time; on a walk or a dive or a quiet moment before sleep. These little daydreams come flooding into our minds, and I find myself wishing for them more than to interact with people. I believe, my dear friend, there is something deeply wrong with my state of mind right now, and I’m not sure how to be free from it.

                I moved north trying to escape the summer’s heat. You know my dread of summer. I hate it greatly because the world feels numb and my mind can’t breathe in the clear blue skies. People pull me here and there begging for me to go with them. They wish to see the lake. They wish to see the ocean. They wish to have all my time. Time, I desperately need to be alone. So, I moved north hoping to find a chill from everything.

                I need my isolation to navigate the Labyrinth within my mind. The Labyrinth which I think is ironically a circular maze, where the goal is not to escape but to find the center of it. It is a naïve idea to want to escape the Labyrinth; you will only be being beating your hands against the walls in a foolish hope. I do not have that hope. I wish to analyze and understand the bricks that make up the walls. I long to reach the center to find some unknown knowledge and maybe, just maybe, be at peace with myself. Then again maybe I am naïve in my dream, on some days I truly believe so.

                This quest has been weighing on me as of late to the point where I do not want to get out of bed. I care nothing for going outside or meeting people. I wish to stay within the safety of my Labyrinth, and I have been giving into this wish. When I step outside, I have become numb to the world. I can’t seem to find anything to smile over, and I can’t recall the last time I had some fun without a beer. Has happiness escaped me in these days? We can only pray this will be a short season of my life.

                And yet, I do go outside but only to check the mail. Again, thank you for the money. It is duly needed, and I’m overjoyed to hear my work has been selling. I did not think the painting of Aphrodite would do so well, but I am happy it has brought you some fortune, even if it is a small one. I hope my next couple of paintings will be received just as well. I pray these works bring you a much bigger fortune and, again, thank you for the money.

                But your letter was not the only one waiting for me in the mail. I found another letter which was very odd because of you, my dear friend, are the only one would know of these addresses. I have kept this small apartment to myself and will not let anyone know where I am staying and yet, there was a mystery letter for me.

                I open the letter to find a smooth paper inside of it; a paper that was handmade and would make the Washi paper master blush. The paper was unbelievable even, smooth and perfectly white. If I had placed it into the snow, then it would have been lost until a warm summer’s day. I couldn’t believe what was in my hands and I open it to find a short letter asking me to come to a house for a critique, in which I would be handsomely compensated for my time. There was no name of the sender another then a golden mask at the bottom. The letter work of the words we just as amazing as the paper itself. The ink was a crisp black with no signs of fading and the writer when to great lengthens to inscribe me the short message.

                I tell you now if I would send you the person’s letter then it would sell as a great work of art, but I dear not do so for myself and others.

                The next day I traveled to the addresses given in the letter. I believe I would find a great mansion in the hills and off the beaten path, but there was no such luck. Instead, I found a Queen Anne house like the one from Bates Motel or the Addams Family (I believe). The was house was welcoming, clean and surrounded by roses. I made my way to the door to ring the doorbell and waited for someone to open it for me. I wait for only a moment when I tall man came around the house. He was dirty from working the garden and his face, now that I think about was a little unsettling but I believe this to be hindsight and meeting him I didn’t notice his face at all. He was more than happy to see me and wore a great smile on his face. I smile if I must say made me recall what Nick Carraway said about Mister Gatsby. It was one of thoughts kind of smiles.

                I quickly found out he was the master of the house and welcome me in for some lunch and tea. He lived here alone. The way he liked he explain. He told me the world was too noisy for him and he enjoys the songs of the trees more than the songs of people. I agree whole heartily with him as we walked into his house.

                In this house, my eyes were lost in the endless array of masks on the walls. Masks were reaching from floor to ceiling and all of them uniquely different. There was nothing else on the walls. He walked me to the kitchen as he explained he was an artist. He made masks for a living and believe masks were not things to hide people but to show people what you truly felt. It was when you came home and was alone in the dark when you wore the real mask. “When you had to face yourself, one could say.”

                The words found their way into my ears, but I was lost with the artwork on the walls. I have always loved masks. I think this love comes to my childhood and my deep love for superheroes. There was something magical about people who got to wear masks for a living. I have always dream or wish to make a serial of masks and maybe, one day I will.

                We ate a simple lunch, so simple I can’t remember what it was and then he showed me down to his studio, which was in the basement. There in the center of the room sat a wooden featureless mannequin head where one might place a mask to work on it. There were no other masks in the room just a work table with tools. I turned to asked the man what mask he wish for me to critique when he removed his face and placed on the mannequin head. There was nothing under his mask just a hole I could look through.

                How filling would it be if there was a mirror behind him and I saw himself, but there wasn’t. Or I saw the mask of the Minotaur cloaked in gold with bloody horns but, alas, there was nothing. All in which I saw in the hole of the man’s head was the brick wall behind him. Once I was over my shock, we talked about the face he had made. He worked over what I thought could be made better, which was not a lot, and he showed me a little on how to make some masks for myself.

                He told we all wear masks; he felt it was better if he could pick the ones he wished to wear. I agree. We had a lovely dinner, I believe it was catfish, and then he paid me eight hundred dollars for the day. I was sent on my way from the house. I believe, he paid to have me around more than he paid me for my artistic critique.

                Afterwards, my friend, I can’t look at people the same, all I see are these masks. All I see is what they are trying to hide. I feel as if they are not real and I don’t like it. I am terrified if I warp my eyes around you will all I see is your mask? Oh Lord, I hope not.                   

With a Handshake,

Zack Amor