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.
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
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.