The Man of Many Faces
For he comes to own the Night
All rise for the Man of Many Faces!
That’s me as I contemplate venturing from the realm of solitude to the outside world where ice cream is sold, babies are born, midnight lovers convene, and powerful men pontificate on television for all to hear.
What face do I feel like wearing tonight?
To say that I like to go out and socialize in large groups of people, meeting acquaintances of acquaintances and — a word that makes my skin fucking crawl like a dehydrated desert-stranded seal– “networking” would be an absolute rotund complete almost lie.
Sometimes I like it. Sometimes I find it fun. Hell, sometimes I find the best kind of friend there is: a fellow drunkard who can argue about world events without taking it personally and getting in a fucking tizzy. I like that guy. There are times when going on this form of booze-fueled kamikaze mission is the top choice though I know I will wake up the next day hungover and hate everyone I met the night before.
Maybe I can go for drinks with a few close friends. Maybe they could come to my house, pour large amounts of wine, smoke, talk shit, and go home. Those friends, the ones willing to have good conversations, get drunk, and know when to leave, I like those people. There is something special about being the bartender in your home, pouring drinks at a price that does not bankrupt future vacations, playing your own music, and closing at whatever hour seems like a good time for everyone to get the hell out. Yes, this is certainly one of the preferred faces.
I could stay home with my wife. We enjoy each other’s time. She is, after all, the better half. If our union was a company, she’s the face, and I’m the Morlock toiling away in the mailroom. We could have dinner, watch a documentary, discuss the world’s absurdities, and offer up solutions to the ether. This is my true authentic face.
One of the new faces I pull out from time to time is aspiring writer. It’s a sight. Still fresh but worn with crags and deep lines at the same time. By morning and by night, clacking away at keys and fueled by coffee, I write. I bleed thoughts and opinions all over the page in an attempt to find Truth.
Writing helped introduce me to other like-minded twisted souls. People who also share their thoughts for all to read, critique, and judge. A masochistic bunch. I like these people. I could contact one of them and send a short message talking about the craft and the voluntary suffering we put ourselves through. It's a brotherhood of suffering, writing is. This…this is a good face.
It would be impossible to pick one face over the others. That would be like saying I eat salad. That’s it. I mean, I enjoy a salad, but sometimes I’m in the mood to devour a thick juicy steak, blood and juice cascading down my face. Other times, I like a sandwich. Everything is fluid. Life is fluid. Socializing, groups of people, time alone, all of these concepts, and my interest in them is fluid.
What will I do tonight? We’ll see…
I get off the couch, finish my drink, and head to the door.
Here comes the Man of Many Faces!
All Hail the Man of Many Faces!
