On the third Thursday of the month the ritualistic burning of the masks commences. Wood is stacked and the wet masks stinking of manure, clay, dirt, and paper are set to torch over whiskey and ice. A small fire, probably not unlike those our ancestors created is administered to life while the Big Dipper hangs directly overhead. All purpose and thought are clouded in a haze of smoke as a still rests in the air to the music of the crackle of wood. Moist clay hisses at a night painted purple and orange.
this is process also... one individual tucked away in the shadows of his thoughts so that the majority of the tribe might nestle comfortably in the warm assurance of sleep.
