Masquerades

We are emperors, surrounded by subjects who share our delusions. They see our sheer accoutrements, but naming them will open curtains on their own nakedness. A seventy-something year old man sits, staring out of a window while eating a sandwich. He is wearing a desert camo hat decorated with a stamped bronze USMC medallion. His black graphic T says “There are wolves. There are sheep. I am the sheep dog.” This is his mascara: a militant costume for an impotent former soldier. My makeup is footwear: a bright shiny thing to draw attention from my fat and lazy ignorance. There is no boundary between enhancement and disguise — they have the same effects. Our makeup is transformative, opaque, to be seen by anyone (who isn’t hopelessly stupid) as style, beauty and strength. The shepherd eating a sheep sandwich thinks he is a hero in slip-on cow loafers cum combat boots, and I think my CK quarter zip is slimming.