I met a man in Forest Park who told me that during the rains of 1996 much of the shrubbery slid down to the path we were standing on. He said, "The topsoil is a kind of dust, with hard clay underneath," and pointed to the ramparts he had built.

The rain keeps falling,
Even in dreams.
The skull leaks badly.

How personal a forest can be, as our brains are inherently objects of immense power, around which great care and many precautions must be taken. They must be shown, as are all numinous objects, great fear and respect. It is all too easy for Western materialists to think of these masks simply as objects of artistic merit and beauty or even of social significance, but they convey the forest reimagining itself.

 

 

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