Made a dusty pile out of pillow shaped coal pills today. Cracked open a nascar branded white plastic bottle and added some of that odorless lighter fluid to my crude creation... Opened one of those little paper pockets with cardboard matches. Did not quite follow instructions, flipped over the cover, grabbed the head of one of the matches and pulled it out as if it were already hot and burning between my fingers. There, a soft whispered sound, a little flame, ready to go, ready to spread. Just a little magic touch of the flame and the coal sculpture and *wooopieee* larger flames jumped up for their wicked dance.
How could I ever forget how I loved to play with fire. I am a fire sign, after all. I would spend evenings playing with a single candle. I was a fire child. A single, fire loving boy, in an apartment with a sleeping father, a mother who was not there to watch me, as she had to teach a class of other probably also fire loving kids.
Imagine little me, all alone in an apartment with a gas powered stove, four open burners and a plastic melting oven. I had the matches, I had the "zimne ognie" (what is the name of these magnesium powder covered sticks that are called "cold fires" in Polish, but are anything but cold, are actaully able to burn holes into things, are actually able to melt into bizarre shapes when just brought together, those things that burn like little hand held suns on their far too short wire rods that get so hot one would want to just throw them at the carpet?)
I used to burn and melt and toast things almost daily. Once I discovered that it was possible to make nearly invisible yet quite destructive flames by burning mail polish remover drenched magazine cutouts, I spent entire afternoons watching landscapes and objects and sometimes just random photos with some strange looking politicians turn into incredibly light, incredibly black, incredibly brittle leaf like objects.
I was concerned about safety, of course. I would burn things only in the bathtub. The shower head was always ready to fight an out of control inferno.
Some more dangerous experiments involving combustive mixtures of chemicals took place in the safety of the always flushable toilet.
I was also the child that enjoyed a casual black snowfall in the kitchen, when a plastic cup turned into probably quite cancer causing airborn fallout.
I guess it was good to get all this out of my system before I was five or so. This way I did not try to blow things up once some more potent flamable objects became the rave with my friends in school. (I only heard some scary stories of some kids blowing off their limbs if they were lucky...)
I also remained quite cool when years later my otherwise peacefully organ playing friend Stefan would set up elaborate chain explosions, destroying entire armies of plastic soldiers in his little playhouse in his parents' backyard in GroߠAuheim.
It was pretty much as if I had forgotten that I am a real fire sign until today.
I saw myself waving a paperplate at a pile of red glowing choals as if I were a desparate bird trying to take off with one far too short little wing.
I made the flames come back several times. Sparks drew little messages into the air. I watched the black coals go from black to red to almost white.
Oh, such simple pleasure, such deep satisfaction.
I will need to buy some really good candles. Maybe it could be the right time to take up a welding class?
I smell like a smoked ham right now. Happy, satisfied...
Do you like flames?