Election Redux
The Campfire
To say it was roaring would be an attack on the English language, as well as the primordial language that the fire spoke in its crackles and snaps back and forth, swaying with the invisible wind, no, the wind that the fire made visible with the flames shooting with the whims of Zeus blowing from afar. But this was well before Zeus's invention; it predated Gods. It even predates Prometheus, the maker of the fires. These are how stories float across generations to create the Gods that ensue to create the fires, our one passion, our one desire. Who does not desire the warm eminence of the hot arid breath and comfort that springs like a reverse liquid shiver into your very being. A man, his son and the original giver: the fire. All sitting, this three way conversation. Warm tones all around, stories told, marshmallows roasted and platitudes confided. The fire answers every query with: "crackle, snap," and oozes of warm blankets and hot cocoa, of an anchor on a tumultuous night at sea; the original white knight, red sight, orange blaze.
A stranger limps to the father and son. Please, have a seat. Plenty of room by the fire. Please grab a spot and let's swap stories, let's gaze into the light show, let's gaze so intensely that we see more than orange, and red and yellow, but see a rainbow (water can't have all the fun) let's make eye contact through this gentle beast and keep our voices low and intimate, as we gather close to keep the demons at bay, as the ghosts sway and live through our words that the fire will coax out, in time. And the fire knows time; the fire transcends time; the fire is time. And soon we will be too. Burning brightly, if as short as the narrowest campground, transient in our lives, but timeless in our deaths. The only thing keeping our memories, our livelihoods, in the present time of our shared loves is this time machine, this time beast, this crackling womb, this hole of death, which rips a hole through our mortality and strangely brings us closer to immortality, hear it crackle, hear it crackle, hear it whisper, feel our spines, feel our goose bumps, imagine our legends, breathe out our shared myths and let's collect a big death as a substitute for our small life. From insubstantial to immortal; from beggar to God, from poor to rich and all inbetween….crackle, pop.
To say it was roaring would be an attack on the English language, as well as the primordial language that the fire spoke in its crackles and snaps back and forth, swaying with the invisible wind, no, the wind that the fire made visible with the flames shooting with the whims of Zeus blowing from afar. But this was well before Zeus's invention; it predated Gods. It even predates Prometheus, the maker of the fires. These are how stories float across generations to create the Gods that ensue to create the fires, our one passion, our one desire. Who does not desire the warm eminence of the hot arid breath and comfort that springs like a reverse liquid shiver into your very being. A man, his son and the original giver: the fire. All sitting, this three way conversation. Warm tones all around, stories told, marshmallows roasted and platitudes confided. The fire answers every query with: "crackle, snap," and oozes of warm blankets and hot cocoa, of an anchor on a tumultuous night at sea; the original white knight, red sight, orange blaze.
A stranger limps to the father and son. Please, have a seat. Plenty of room by the fire. Please grab a spot and let's swap stories, let's gaze into the light show, let's gaze so intensely that we see more than orange, and red and yellow, but see a rainbow (water can't have all the fun) let's make eye contact through this gentle beast and keep our voices low and intimate, as we gather close to keep the demons at bay, as the ghosts sway and live through our words that the fire will coax out, in time. And the fire knows time; the fire transcends time; the fire is time. And soon we will be too. Burning brightly, if as short as the narrowest campground, transient in our lives, but timeless in our deaths. The only thing keeping our memories, our livelihoods, in the present time of our shared loves is this time machine, this time beast, this crackling womb, this hole of death, which rips a hole through our mortality and strangely brings us closer to immortality, hear it crackle, hear it crackle, hear it whisper, feel our spines, feel our goose bumps, imagine our legends, breathe out our shared myths and let's collect a big death as a substitute for our small life. From insubstantial to immortal; from beggar to God, from poor to rich and all inbetween….crackle, pop.
posted by neilly bojangles at 9:04 PM
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