Are disguises ever good?

To truly disguise yourself you have to be believable as the person you are pretending to be. You have to hide your real self and become the projected self.

The master of disguises is adept at observation and mimicry. They are skilled at the process of transformation. 

Me

People who practise the art of disguise with regularity are skilled human chemists who practice their talents long enough to become alchemists – effecting a complete transformation from one state to another, from one being to another.

When reading about actors and artists who use disguises as a form of performance, as a show, I asked myself a series of questions. One that I was unable to resolve was, ‘Why would someone want to retain a disguise instead of being themselves?’ It is a prickly question that is often difficult to answer. I’m guessing that at some point the existence is no longer a disguise but it becomes the new reality of being. This fluidity of being - of identity - is not a disguise. I think it is a period of change and of growth.

At times like this I feel that the disguise serves the purpose of a cloak - to hide the real work going on out of sight.

So, are disguises ever good? Maybe they are if they lead to positive permanent change. But as a means to hurt or deceive others or self, I’d have to say that everything that is disguised is designed to hide the truth of the moment and should therefore be avoided. But, how are you to know what is the truth or a facade?

I’m looking for a litmus test for this question and as soon as I find it I’ll pass the information on to you.

For now my conclusion is that disguises are a way of seeing and of being seen. Maybe all parts of us that are revealed in this way are simply aspects of us that we were previously unable to show but through the mask of identity camouflage we are set free.

“Disguises can be liberating ... [you can mutate] into the objects of ... [your] fascination. Ms Sherman takes a detailed interest in others while mastering the art of making it up.”  (Article on Cindy Sherman, reclusive photographer and artist.)

Creeping imagination

Have you ever had that feeling that something you dislike has touched you without you knowing? I mean, for example, a spider is crawling on your arm. Then you do those jerky movements that look like a parent’s bad dance at a wedding. You know those times, don’t you?

I just did.

The recent high winds and the neighbours cats have caused severe damage to one of the fence panels in my garden (well, this one more than the rest) and it looked like the Costa Concordia as it listed away from the other upright panels. Other neighbours, houses away from mine, have stopped me in the street and mentioned that they saw it falling over it, so I knew it was time to remove it.

Hatted and gloved against the weather I went forth into the garden.

The rotting wood fell easily away from the attached posts. I thought then this was going to be easier than I had imagined and wondered why I had delayed removing this eyesore for so long. As I leant forwards to lift some of the broken pieces of wood I felt something touch my back.

It was a light touch, and it instantly unnerved me because I was wearing several layers of clothing.

I dropped the broken panels to the ground and jumped backwards. That’s when the dancing started. My arms were making strange geometrical shapes with my body as I struggled to release the foreign object from near my skin. I could feel it moving down my back. It was all I could do not to scream out.

As I jerked frantically I felt something move lower down my back I flung off the gardening gloves and reached for it. With disgust I threw a small dark object to the ground. It was a spider! I knew it was, wasn’t it? I peered at the ground but the pebbles disguised it, but I was right, wasn’t I? I felt my skin crawl as I continued to fan my clothing away from my body to let any other creepy crawlies loose.

What I did next surprised me.

I shook my clothes one more time then retrieved the gloves and continued to clear the broken wood away from the edges of the garden. Once they were in a neat pile I walked swiftly to the kitchen door.

Then, it started again; that creepy feeling that something unbidden was touching me. This time I didn’t feel anything new I saw a spider (yes, a real one) on the doorstep. I flicked it off, back into the garden, and as I touched it it curled up into a ball. That was it! I was convinced that what had touched me earlier was really a spider. I lost all reserve and flew through the door.

I ascended the steps rather quickly and in moments I was in the bathroom and stripping off my clothes. As I did so I shook each item – away from me – to see what was in there. I checked my back in the mirror and, thankfully, nothing was there. As I turned my clothing back inside out something fell to the floor. I jumped back convinced it was a spider. It lay there in a dark ball, not moving.

I didn’t want to move first but I had to move before it did, so I backed up, all the time keeping my eyes on that spot, and reached for some toilet tissue. As I approached it again I tried to identify it. Was it really just a dried up berry or was it a disguised spider. With my exposed skin tightening in fear I enclosed the ball with the tissue. It did not move. I gingerly picked it up and found out that it was a berry.

Now, that should have calmed all my fears, yet it didn’t.

I was still using my hand to brush invisible spiders from my back. My imagination had created a colony of them crawling all over me and the evidence of the berry as it lay in the tissue did not convince me that there hadn’t already been at least one of them crawling on me.

You know those times, don’t you?

You don’t?

Oh, it’s just me then ...

Oblivious

Contentment means you are not distracted by the things outside of your arc of vision.

You do not see possibilities in your life until you want, need or desire them; until then you are blind.

Oblivion is always replaced by a spectrum of opportunities the moment your eyes are opened.

Elizabeth Taylor – outdone

Rumour has it that Elizabeth Taylor liked to keep people waiting. There was even an edict to make sure that she was late to her own funeral. She was a legend in life and will – I’m sure - be a legend in her death. Although she will long be remembered one incident of outstanding lateness will outshine even Dame Elizabeth Taylor in my mind.

I don’t like being late to events where I’m invited but the traffic diversions and ensuing delays meant I was bound to arrive at a ceremony after it was due to start: I was beginning to feel mortified and called the family with my apologies as the hour was fast approaching.

I need not have worried; they still weren’t dressed and hadn’t left their accommodation yet. We arrived late (by our standards) but later – much later – I realised just how early I really was. After driving around 80 miles we waited in the car. And waited. Then, as a change of activity, we waited some more!

Nearly an hour after we’d arrived I called the hosts again. This time there was no answer. I thought they must be on their way. But this was not the case, after some – waiting, there was a ... no show.

I called again, this time I was told they were just leaving the house (something I’d be told when I was stuck in traffic a good while (and many miles) before.

While I waited I saw a few people arrive at the chosen location – they obviously knew something I did not. There was no sense of urgency about their arrival. Every guest had the same invitation but these people rolled in with a casual air. It was immediately obvious that nothing was going to happen for a long time yet. So I decided to go elsewhere for a while as nothing was happening at the celebration venue. When I returned about 45 minutes later I felt as if I had committed treason or at least some great breach of social etiquette.

But, again I sat and waited for the main celebrants to arrive.

When they did turn up (laden with excuses but not apologies for the delay) it was a full three hours after the party should have started. It was then that I thought that Elizabeth Taylor had been outdone!

Most of the guests turned up after this.

This led me to the conclusion that either I was not part of that social network that knew you had to add three plus hours to the official start time or I existed in a different time zone and held a distinct set of social standards. Incredulity remained with me for the rest of the evening.

So, this is an apology to the memory of Elizabeth Taylor who carefully nurtured her reputation over seventy years – and who even kept visitors to her own house waiting for her to enter a room – sorry, but you have been outdone.

Fringes of behaviour

Here’s a perfectly random question. Why don’t more boys have fringes? And what is the purpose of a fringe? But wait, let me explain why I’m asking it.

I was sat observing a group of boys and girls, they looked pretty similar as they were dressed in a uniform of black trousers and white shirt or blouse. Then I took to looking at their hairstyles while we all waited for a scheduled event to begin.

The girls’ hair was an array of colour, twists, plaits, flicks and lots and lots of fringes. The fringes were so varied: some were the traditional straight down cut just above the eyebrow type of fringe, others were off-centre parting swept behind the opposite ear style and still others defy description. Suffice it to say they fell in the broad category of fringe.

Here is a dictionary definition of a fringe: a border of hair that is cut short and hangs across the forehead.

Then I glanced at a boy. He was walking away from the stage and I saw that he had a short back and sides haircut that looked very smart, then he turned back and he had curtains of hair across his eyes at fascinating geometrical angles that seemed to defy gravity without the use of gel. I was awe struck. He was beautiful, the style suited him. As this vision of intrigue moved before me I saw yet another candidate that sought to defy the dictionary definition of a fringe. The boy wearing it had relatively short hair on one side but, in a variation on the traditional comb-over, he manipulated his luscious ebony locks from behind his left ear to just over his right eyebrow in a forty-five degree angle taper.

It was at this point that I began to question why I hadn’t noticed the lack of fringed boys before. The way these two boys created and styles their hair was just magnificent. They swaggered with style. They were confident and ebullient in every movement.

Switching back to the fringed girls I noticed that they all appeared to bend forwards rather than throw their heads back in the self-assured manner of the boys. My brief (unscientific) observation led me to conclude that boys with fringes are more extroverted while girls similarly adorned appear more reserved. The un-fringed girls behaved more like the fringed boys.

So, the result of this social questioning is another set of questions: why do girls use fringes to hide themselves and why are fringed boys like peacocks?

Of course, P!nk is the exception to this rule!

Clear vision

I have worn glasses since I was a teenager. I didn’t have any choice in what they looked like until I started full-time working at the age of seventeen. Then given the freedom I began to follow the fashion of the day – whatever it was, you see I wanted to fit in. I took advice and I tried to go my own way too. I bought brightly coloured large framed glasses, dark frames, small frames, I was guided by that invisible (but over powering) hand of ‘common fashion’. The style of the masses was appealing as I desperately wanted to fit in.

It wasn’t until my third decade of life that I really knew and accepted my own true identity and style. And then things changed in all areas.

My vision changed completely.

Looking at my range of eyewear – from prescription glasses to sunglasses, I realised how important it is to see and be seen. The way I’m seen is a part of my choice of how I display my identity from my hair to my footwear.

My glasses (or contact lenses) are an intricate part of how I want things to appear to me and how I want to appear to all onlookers.

Sometime I see how I could be seen. I am happy with my vision.

2004 home

2004 July Jamaica

2007 July home

April 2010

Baggage

When travelling we pack our bags and take our luggage with us. The light and easy items we take with us into the body of the plane. This is our hand luggage. However, if we have large amounts of things they go into the hold, often thrown in - sometimes without the slightest modicum of care - by the baggage handlers (but that is another story I’m sure everyone has a tale to tell on that score). We are always moving with something as we travel through life. Something from the past constantly accompanies us as we move forward to the next destination. Be it in the overhead compartment, within easy reach, or in the hold, for retrieval at a later stage, our stuff goes with us.

Sheryl Crow said earlier this month “hey, at my age, [she’s 48] everyone comes with baggage. It’s the baggage that makes it interesting.”

Marie Claire readers have been told that baggage is emotional turmoil caused by some issue in a person’s past. This baggage can pressurise or damage a relationship from the start, so says the wisdom of the Rich Santos writing about sex and the single guy in this magazine. Rich Santos describes many types of baggage such as the ‘white whale baggage’ (Moby Dick reference), the ‘family baggage’ (obviously related to family issues), and the catch all type ‘mystery baggage’. This final grouping is for when you are not sure how to define the irrational behaviour that you are experiencing in your relationship partner. When this type of baggage is foremost in the relationship the advice is that it is easier to dismiss the person and move on because they “have too much baggage.”

Sheryl Crow says that being a 48 year old single mother of two children is seen by some people as a lot of baggage – I see it as a mother with two children: that’s it, nothing else. But then I would say that as a single mother of a similar age with one child, wouldn’t I? I don’t see the single status as baggage, I don’t see parenthood as baggage, and I definitely don’t see children as baggage. I know some people prefer to have less complicated relationships without children involved, but hey, they are part and parcel of people’s lives. To me there is no option not to have them: they are already there. Just like there is no option that people have their own life experiences and memories (aka baggage), just like there is no option that people have their personal relationship history (also known as baggage). What may simply have been defined as personal history in an earlier part of life suddenly, after the age of thirty becomes described as baggage. How strange.

Baggage, as it is commonly known, is not optional in life or relationships. Baggage is part of the tapestry of life. Baggage is life.

I have a family history, I have an emotional history, I have a child, I have life. These things about me are not optional. What I have is not “too much baggage” it is life. However others may view us, I know that we are not baggage.

Motherhood / hooded mother

Motherhood

It starts a new life

exciting prospects beckon

visions of share laughter

float peacefully with the

scent of love. Always

connected – even when

Apart, the bond is fixed

at conception.

Sunrise brings fresh

opportunities to learn and grow.

Smiles dress them daily

and together they dance through life -

this is what freedom is.

Hooded Mother

It ends her life –

never her choice,

the moment of birth

delivers shackles.

Isolated in her private grief

the numbness invades her marrow.

Thrown daily between stark

awareness and blank existence

she lurches drunkenly

with only solitary fallen comets

to remind her

what freedom was like.

Looking and seeing

Sometimes you don’t notice something until it’s gone.

Coming from a funeral this afternoon, I was driving home in a reflective mood as is normal on these occasions and as I rounded a familiar corner I noticed something was different. I saw a huge gap, with daylight shining at me from the other side of the road. I continue to move in the traffic and simultaneously I take a second glance, a quick look at the difference that had arrested my attention so rapidly moments before. As I scan the area I realise that since I passed there a few hours earlier there has been some serious physical effort put in in the area because a lot of pruning and a whole area of greenery have been removed.

I never mindfully registered the trees or bushes before, but now I know that they used to be there. I sense their absence.

In the few seconds that I was on this piece of road I was conscious of a totally new view. I saw a building that I had not previously noticed; I saw signs that earlier were invisible to me. It was as if I was in a new location.

This revelation made me promise myself to be more aware of everyday things in life and recognise and appreciate them before I realise that they have gone. It also made me smile as I realised that sometimes some things need to be removed so that we have space to see.

Space to see often reveals something that was previously hidden or obscured.

Sometimes you notice something different when something old and familiar is eradicated from its usual place.

Therefore each day I will … Keep looking. Keep seeing.

Impressions

In many homes across the world, including mine, there are mementos that have become lasting impressions of a person, a time, a memory. These may be in the form of photographs, objects and books.

Clay is a wonderful medium for retaining impressions.

Children love to play with clay. Adults also enjoy the pleasure of shaping something pliable into a lasting object. Impressing a shape into clay has become a usual way to retain memories. Parents and other relatives marvel at the imprints of the tiny hands and feet of the new additions to the family that have been preserved and mounted high for all to see.

Clay captures details perfectly. Every line and wrinkle is preserved. They catch the moment and last for a lifetime. The moment passes but the memory stays.

As we enter and share people’s lives we also make lasting impressions.

This impression can be when you or something about you stands out in an observer’s mind. It can be a good or a bad impression.

Each person makes an impact that can become deeply grooved into your mind or flit away like a single autumn leaf in amongst hundreds of others swirling through the windswept park.

I have had people come into my life that have been forceful and left a running impression like a deep tyre track in mud, while others that have been subtle and intricate leaving a memory like that associated with a beautiful perfume.

All these people have left a part their character behind even if they have gone away. Part of them will forever remain with me. The way they leave, the way they entered my life will all become part of the overall impression that they have generated and that I remember – fondly or not – when I think of them.

I’m sure that the same thing happens when people remember me.

I know that all impressions change and shape the receiver – that makes me conscious of the potential impressions that I am leaving in my wake today. Will they be strong positive impression that I have made or weak and distasteful impacts? Some people practice how to make a good impression and by doing this they act in a certain way to creating specific behaviour patterns for their own long- or short-term benefit.

It is unusual for anyone to know beforehand exactly what the result of their efforts will be. The effect of being in contact with others is like the creation of a painting: it is made by one person but many others can be influenced by its image.

I reflect on the mark others have made on my life. On so many occasions I have been extremely privileged to be the recipient of a beautiful expression of their characters. Some marks we leave in others' lives are temporary, some impressions are permanent and beautiful.

I hope that all the temporary impacts will be washed away like a sand castle at high tide, while all the permanent imprints will remain like clay casts retaining all the magnificent details perfectly.