Sancrosanct Diabolism

I think better when it's cold outside. I want to just dupatta myself up, pretending to hide from the chill or follow some long-established tradition of decorum - but in reality hiding from people and their ineffably banal conversations and counsel; in reality, repulsing decorum of any sort. When the weather is miserable, I feel most comfortably me. The weather yesterday was much too lovely. It led to my succumbing to participation in ritualistic pageantry - a fairly evil gala. I had been sitting quite happily on the couch, watching Monty Python (again) when I heard the seminal rumblings of advocation - the mutterings of the proponents of book-burning. A bit disturbed, but more amused than anything, I continued to watch the film. Wild shreiks erupted, spewing out of suddenly deranged women. My environment was permeated with the semblance of voodooism. A doll was created out of newspaper and plastic bags, eyes permanant markered - as with the unibrow - and hair the curled shreds of recycled information. It was uncannily anthropomorphic. The cackling furies tossed the doll around, claiming that it was only representative of some imaginary figure... though I had seen the hair that they plucked from someone's hairbrush. I had seen them add that hair to the fabrication of the doll. I sighed - again attempting to finish viewing Arthur's search for the Holy Grail. Well, he failed. Holiness was not found - only filth. My attention was now completely given to my wicked companions. Somehow, I found myself being pulled down by their screeching hands and crawling voices, down to a fire pit wearing gray and black with ratted, matted hair and sanguine lips and charcoal eyes. Frightening. They chanted passages from the book selected... dark arts, sex spells, money magic, and other things our neighbors aren't telling us. My turn somehow came. I read about stealing bananas from a disabled girl. I ripped out those pages after my declamation and threw them into the fire. They burned. Worse orations followed - disgusting rites involving, most harmlessly, candles (along with a slew of sexual ritualisms). After they were read, they too were ripped out of the book and thrown into that fire - that bier of badness, that pyre of perversion. Finally, the repugnacne of the book was too overwhelming. In one coalescing, immense shriek, pageless books, papers, and bindings were thrown in together. Their foul message was erased, at least for us. Their degredated, decadent diabolism were finally burned - curling into a smoke that the wind blew far away from our suseptible ears. It was a book burning. It was eerie and not entirely free of voodooism. But somehow, it was sacred.