Man kind’s dark horse accessory of the season: The Covid Face mask and the Spirit of America

Masks are in. People be trusted as bob Dylan once said: “When a person is wearing a mask they might tell the truth. When a person is not wearing a mask, they won’t tell you the truth.” (Bob Dylan, Rolling thunder review). Or what the kitchen maid saw through Sharon Stones Key hole. Unquote, close paragraph close key hole close bank account…. A truly macabre speculation or what the French would call: les Incompetents (completely helpless). Consider John Hues is an adjective or a membership that is completely open as the breakfast club is. The world’s longest joint suicide note signed by all the god’s who matter, all the god’s that still care and one slimy otter. The mask is more than meets the face. 

Masks is also the many faced god whom we serve whether we know it or not. (See: Joseph Campbell “Hero of a thousand faces”). The glass of fashion in whose mold we are formed and whose mold has now broke. That which could not be broken. EXCALIBUR! The power of Arthur, the sword and the stone. I, WE are power.  In the arm the squire same as the barren tree branch winter quire. But love knows nothing of branch. 

In ancient times, all stories ended both of two ways, two masks: either a wedding or a funeral. The symbol of death became the sad face mask and the wedding became the happy one. And their relationship together in the annals of storytelling, in the mythological universality is personified by the grizzly bear. WHO and WHAT? Who indeed? (see Theodore Roosevelt: “the Rough Riders Storm San Juan hill”). To wit, the character of America is the spirit of adventure, veiled as a bandit. It transcends the realms of triviality such as politics or digital infamy. It is the will of the whips. The glittering gleam and the moon’s winking dream of southern hospitality. There is the myth behind the masked America.