There was a period in my youth when I was obsessed with fire. It wasn't a long period. It was that moment between childhood and pre-pubescence. There, stuck in the middle with a highly curious mind. I found a stash of match books. I would sit, lighting one after another on a speed bump in the road. I loved the chalky sound of a match swiping against the hard pavement, and how just before it would ignite, it would crackle and sigh simultaneously. I’d watch the tiny white spark abrupt into flame. It started so quick, and ended too quick. Every time. I could never seem get a good enough view in time. I'd cock my neck to the side and hold the match upward, then down and watch the flame fight against gravity. It never lasted long enough to satisfy my senses.
I’d watch the speck of white turn to auburn-like colors and mixes of oranges and yellows meshing together. The flame would seem to grow and melt down the wooden stick like lava made of cloud. I’d watch the tan wood blacken bit by bit. It was like the flame was some dark, hungry entity devouring a clean soul. It was amazing how even though it eagerly feed its raw appetite, it seemed to dance gracefully, softly while doing it.
Somehow right towards the end, as it trekked towards my finger tips, I could see it calming and speeding up at the same time. I wouldn't want to put it out but would feel this excitement, an urgency. And just as much as I loved how this somehow beautiful, powerful thing crackled into thin air, I also loved how the sound of air magically swallowed it in the end with a soft gush (to save my precious fingers of course). Just as thrilling was dipping the flame into a puddle and instantly hearing it's deflating, dissipating like a snakes slick hiss warning of tssss.
I can’t tell you exactly why it was so mesmerizing to me. I didn't necessarily wonder about the science of fire or the reasons why it behaved the way it did. I was fully aware of the dangers and never wanted the flame to grow bigger. I simply loved the sensation of watching this fleeting thing coming into existence and just as quickly, evaporating into nothingness. It’s there, and then it’s gone. I simply loved the quick sounds that I had to strain to really store into memory because they were over as soon as they began.
Eventually though the stash of matches burnt out and I moved on from pyro days to other fascinating and curious things. To this day though, I still love lighting candles each night. Love the ambiance of a warm glow and the calm it exudes. My daughter asked why I had so many candles in the house, why I lit them every night and as I went around striking the match box and lighting each, one by one. I told her as I held it burning down the stick, "I just like them" and blew out the flame.
I’d watch the speck of white turn to auburn-like colors and mixes of oranges and yellows meshing together. The flame would seem to grow and melt down the wooden stick like lava made of cloud. I’d watch the tan wood blacken bit by bit. It was like the flame was some dark, hungry entity devouring a clean soul. It was amazing how even though it eagerly feed its raw appetite, it seemed to dance gracefully, softly while doing it.
Somehow right towards the end, as it trekked towards my finger tips, I could see it calming and speeding up at the same time. I wouldn't want to put it out but would feel this excitement, an urgency. And just as much as I loved how this somehow beautiful, powerful thing crackled into thin air, I also loved how the sound of air magically swallowed it in the end with a soft gush (to save my precious fingers of course). Just as thrilling was dipping the flame into a puddle and instantly hearing it's deflating, dissipating like a snakes slick hiss warning of tssss.
I can’t tell you exactly why it was so mesmerizing to me. I didn't necessarily wonder about the science of fire or the reasons why it behaved the way it did. I was fully aware of the dangers and never wanted the flame to grow bigger. I simply loved the sensation of watching this fleeting thing coming into existence and just as quickly, evaporating into nothingness. It’s there, and then it’s gone. I simply loved the quick sounds that I had to strain to really store into memory because they were over as soon as they began.
Eventually though the stash of matches burnt out and I moved on from pyro days to other fascinating and curious things. To this day though, I still love lighting candles each night. Love the ambiance of a warm glow and the calm it exudes. My daughter asked why I had so many candles in the house, why I lit them every night and as I went around striking the match box and lighting each, one by one. I told her as I held it burning down the stick, "I just like them" and blew out the flame.
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