airs and pretense

essaic, illustrative

I have a mind to build a new world for myself. Now, if I could only find the desire, the motivation, and the energy to do so. First I need patience with Almighty God, and then with people, those self-willed, desirous, highly motivated, and energetic people. Alas, they seem to be all over the place, and unerringly, actually I believe purposefully, they are always getting in my way. Moreover, the truth is I am but a small fry in a gigantic deep-fryer filled with fries longer, stouter, and positioned better in the pot; consequently they finish frying more quickly than I do. When, where, and how can I ever be first, all to myself, or, at the least, unknown?

 

Truly, I am sick and tired of this putting on of airs for the world and its people. To my mother, who thinks too much of me, I am normal, loving, reasonable, and concerned - I am not all these things, not all at once. Airs and putting-on, for the father who renounces my son-ship, yep! Airs and play-acting, for a father that knows too little of his son, yep! They mistakingly forget that I am a trained, advanced chemically-dependent person; therefore their dilemma is the substitution of reality for my pretense. Their erring in truth is the guise for my subterfuge. This to their blunder, and my parents miscalculation is also the error of all the other members of my family, of all my closes friends, and of all my associates. None are the slightest bit aware that I am as the notorious "wolf in sheep clothing." They all like my airs, so why disappoint? Besides, my imitation of them delights their vanity, and it is the device that flatters their ego; thus, I entreat them to be at ease and feel comfortable, for then they are unguarded. Good thing, for they need not know the real me, nor to perceive my controlling device.

 

Also, as if an organ-grinder’s monkey, I dance around and do flips for society and government alike. Work, play, pay taxes, vote, be kind and manner-able, follow rules, and then be willing to die for country and honor. I am not that honorable. The truth is that they are under the sway of my hypnotic cavort. So enslaved they carry my load and pay my way. I am unemployable and lazy; I’d cheat on my taxes - if I did have a job. And guess what? I do not vote - a black man.

 

I tired of being kind and gracious to self-seekers, who like myself, are gluttonous for their own way, so I fake it. What can I say? At times, I feign to obey laws with which I do not agree; as a matter of fact, these very same laws the police, judges, lawyers, and government officials neither obey. I am pretending, and they believe I am willing and ready to fight for their rights? Yet, truth be told, I am the only one fighting and dying; struggling and in peril of the hypocrisy hidden inside. In essence, in spirit, truly I am dead because of my battles against them. Airs and espionage can be deadly bed-fellows.

 

No matter how faithful, merciful, and forgiving God is - they say He is - it seems inconsequential what airs of discipleship, devotion, religious practices, or solemn prayers I might feign to demonstrate or falsely communicate, for He yet remains silent, and against me. There is no escaping or any deceiving of the truth that comes out of the horse's mouth. God made me and He knows me; my motives are not hidden from Him. Nevertheless, I am so well verse in airs that even the truth seems a falsity. A revealed truth seems to be that all of these: mother, father, family, friends, associates, governments - all do what they want, whenever they want, even while I am running around putting on airs for them.

 

The Grocer, the Baker, the Candlestick-maker ..., me, myself, and I, we are what we are. Whatever our pose in life whether as mothers, fathers, sons or daughters; as friends, associates, or patriotic citizens; perhaps as fervent religionist, militant atheist, or genocidal terrorist, glowing within us is our air of superiority and supremacy. Everywhere and in all walks of life, someone is manipulating someone else to get what they want. And my contrived motive is to be the one fooling, not the one being fooled. Therefore, the art of alibi-making; the science of tomfoolery, and the creative genius for blending little-white-lies ever so slightly with hints of truth are utilities indispensible.

 

These disciplines are aided and abetted by my Oscar-winning performances of "the man who cried a thousand tears," and a best supporting-actor role of "the man with a thousand clever excuses". It is these finely portrayed talents that never cease to enthrall my audiences and vibrate their heart-strings. They produce over and over again, the desired affections of sympathy, commiseration, and best of all charity. So is the how and why of what I do best putting on airs; why I must be ever-ready for a passionate and dedicated exaggeration of the pretense; how unweariedly I labor to gain the highest degree of precocious pretentions.

 

Except that sooner or later I am brought full circle within my airs of deceit and faced with truth, then undoubtedly, I could never find my true self. Within the penetrating and cleansing light of truth, my airs and play-acting are revealed; I am stripped of all the lies - I am unknown, even to myself. Contrastingly and contrarily, the tears are refreshing and the humor inviorgrating; within this divine and defining moment I am found laughing at myself, and the world of people around me.

 

What a wanton and fanatical celebration of ourselves, in the pride of our lives, in the lust of our eyes, and the vainity of our fleshy desires. What a parade! What a procession! All of us, the high-stepping majorettes leading our own bands that only play our own funeral march. We are an innumerable mass of silly, bright-colored, and foolishly dressed clowns, frolicking in streets of despair. The revelry in folly, blinded and hollow shells, dancing mischief-makers. We permeate the boulevards with ill-human fesitivity and all our adphrodisical sophistry. And none hear the music or heed the song sounding, "God is watching us," a faint prophetic hymn. Just when, where, and how can I ever be first, all to myself, or, at the least, unknown?