"THOU SHALT NOT KILL" unless: 1. It's silent 2. It's on a massive scale 3. It stimulates the economy 4. and It puts the power of billions in your pockets. Then, it's fine

Fire, even blue fire. Especially blue fire. Mind draws a blank. This not too unusual; every morn this little ritual. Before the rising of the sun quite often. But the blue. Was new. In three years, a first. So running in to get camera. Hurry, before maybe it changes. Disappears. Be good to have some pictures to look and see what actually was there.
Fire changes so much. So fast. Always...

But, ja, Valentines Day. Even though he liked drinking, rarely did he get drunk. V.D. was that rarity. Drinking straight shots of top shelf tequila he was doing fine: not stumbling too much. Coherent. Good, polite conversations. (Two people had told him that he looked like the devil in-carnate, which strangely pleased and surprised him). So, it was fine. He was happy. It was when Grace said that they should go to the next party and they went to leave, that the failure became apparent; a funny lack of memory from that point on, which only, much later, Gracies stories shed a light on.


Apparently, she had to half-carry him through the Border control check point. It should be said that Grace is the biggest Greek he'd ever known. She was a giant! Taller than him (he was 6' 2") by a good three inches, blond, an ex Marine, she was a true Amazon. Then she carried him to the parking lot to her car and said "get in" to which he replied that he didn't feel like going, and again she said "get in, you fool, don't you see all the Border Patrols?". So it went like that, back and forth a few times, so he just laid down to make his point. Laying on the ground once more feebly he said he didn't wanna go. By then, the Border Patrols were all around, the police were there with dogs, and it was a full blown spectacle. Somehow, Grace left without him and , again, somehow, he made it to his car. Why they let him do this, nobody says. He should've gone to jail. It was a major miracle. Four hours later he woke up and drove three miles home. The next day he knew that his drinking days were over. I'm too old for this shit he remembered saying to himself.
But now, almost two weeks later, it still yanks at him. Go get a beer! And he almost does, but it doesn't work. See, how this fire is pretty normal? All white yellow orange red and pinks? The blue one was different. Driving back from Deming. Too much time on the straightest of roads. What else to do? Think. About beer. About the disgust of being a traitor to Uncle Wasyl. He of the huge red nose visible blocks away. Family traditions, man!!!.. Remembered driving on this same road months ago, and getting mad at himself for not having bought any beers. A gallon jug of wine instead. So he thought "what the fuck", you know? Uncapped it and took a healthy swig. Then another. And began laughing as he imagined a patrolman pulling him over and asking just what the hell did he think he was doing? "Duh!!! Uh, um I think I was dislocating my shoulder with this heavy ole jug. Just to whet my whistle, you know?"... Maybe the morning was different. The cold that woke him up at five. Deciding not to go back to sleep. Actually enjoying the cold upon getting out of bed and getting dressed. Taking his time. Savoring the feeling on his skin. It's pretty real. Both heat and cold. Going into the trailer and setting the water to boil for coffee. Popping a roll into the electric toaster. Finding the butter. "gonna be a long day" ran through his mind as he picked his nostril.
Was afraid the blue somehow wouldn't show. With how fast fire changes it's hard to say. He'd sit and watch and try to understand what it was that he was seeing. Ja. Fire. But what is it? How does it come out of the wood so quickly, with just one match and a little kindling? Sure. Everything in the desert so dry that it would seem you don't even need a match. Still... So it's heat and light. Wasn't it the heat that drove him to make 'em in the first place? To get out of the cold in his body after all night? Sometimes taking off his shoes and passing the feet right through the flames to warm the ice cube toes.. Body warming up but feet still cold on the frozen ground? Which made him wonder about light. So what? You need heat before you have light? At some point remembering the laser pointers that seemed pretty cold, but for a fact he knew that on really cold days he'd pass by a lightbulb and feel the heat coming off of that. The sun, it's said, is billions of atomic bombs going off constantly, so plenty of heat to give off light there. Funny how he never thought of the light-heat connection. Took it for granted as sun baked everybody on some beach. But now, it's impossible to not think that cold is the absence of light. But you can be in a dark hot oven, dumbass!
Oh
Besides the warmth and scant light by which to see the essentials within armsreach, his coffee and smokes, it was the sheer everchanging beauty of the flames that was so mesmerizing. Hypnotic, really. In this sea of cold darkness all around them, this island with the wild dancing fire was all that existed. A smile spread in the shadows cast on his face by the dancing light, as, reaching for his nose he remembered Mr Allen, his landlord long ago back in Philly. He'd make it a point to personally come pay his rent every month, mainly because he enjoyed the old gentle- man, and because his secretary was the quirkiest, most enchanting lady ever. She was so non- chalant in a vague way that he'd fall into an ocean of warmth just seeing her busy in a corner. Having to deal with her when Mr Allen wasn't there was almost too much for both of them. The subtle enjoyment was so profound they'd float in the silence of eye exploration. Marveling at the depth of joy so simple. It was there that he'd first encountered this hanging snot thing. Mr Allen must've had some sort of a record in Philly for being unconcerned about the length of shiny strings that would dangle under his breath, catching onto his vest, or sweater. It was the secretary's wise smile that would ease the complex unease he'd feel from the visuals he couldn't take his eyes away from. It didn't make any sense. The old man was so classy, so gentle. And there they were, and here were, now, his, as he pulled an extraordinarily long and tenacious one outta his nostril with his thumb. After some scrutiny, he carefully attached it to a twig sort of not quite in the flames, and watched it dangle. Wondering what would happen. Would it fall down, as it continued stretching? Would it dry up and break from the radiating heat? Would it burn?

So often faces appear. Very clearly he sees two eyes... A distorted mouth-part-beak...
Skull of a cow? It's said that only four substances exist. Earth, water, air and fire. All is made of these. All pervasive.
Even here. A hint. But only visible in photographs. The flames too quick to see as it happens. An exotic fire-fish mouth agape to catch?
Sparks spiraling off on tangents. Whimsical footprints-trails not yet gone. Too much of the invisible stuff that catches his fancy. A memory. Stored, who-knows-where?, pops up. He's on a fishing boat with two other guys and the captain at the wheel. Night-time fishing for squid. Calamari. The captain an old Italian. From the old country. Crazy as a loon. That whole summer, even though fishing every night they never even once lowered the nets into the dark waters of Monterey bay. Other boats were catching. Manu just wanted to cruise around all night. Who knows why? He was that way. Nuts. Early one morning while standing in the bow and watching the waters, he noticed how the wind was leaving tiny ripples on the flat surface of the bay, not as he would've imagined, but in thin fingers going every which way to simply vanish.

There should be images with this, what's going on, even the memory brought up pictures, what's up with computers?!?

The dangling silver string swayed back and forth, slowly stretching. "My breeze indicator" he thought, "without it I would've never guessed there was a stirring of the air." It was impossible to say what was to become of this. "Might just stretch to breaking point". Another thing that didn't make any sense was how all these twigs and sticks and weeds that he'd throw on the fire, they were all so dry and brittle yet, after some time, the heat would make them begin to bend and twist and squirm as though suddenly alive and not happy about being there. "Why do they do this?", he thought. "They're dry and brittle! Some as thick as my little finger. and yet, here they are!".
"It's the heat", he realized. "Heat softens even solids.". Remembering his days casting bronze. Extreme heat will liquify even metals. The long-nosed, horned mask, scowling at something.
Carrots get soft in soups. It's all pretty simple. All this stuff in the fire squirms and twists and turns and burns to change into dust, into the finest of ash. Pure. White. Clean. Meanwhile, the snot was showing signs of drying. "Will it too burn?", he wondered.
One eye bulging out in disbelief... A fire's a fire is a fire. Why see things that ain't there? But the transformation from a bunch of twigs and roots and branches, with a match, into all this, somehow did something to him. To his mind? Even that was uncertain.

Why would it turn to white? Why sometimes, would it suddenly start sounding and looking like a torch flame, shooting out from some little spot like there's a jet engine in there somewhere, getting ready to take off?

He'd share his breakfast with the flames. Every morning. No matter what it was; sausage patties cooked on the grill right there, jalapeno pepper blackened, a piece of roll with butter. One time he even gave it some coffee, at which of course the fire sputtered. Chocolate it really liked. "Hard to tell, if more than butter", he thought. But, ja, it liked different chocolates so much it'd send incredible smells back to him as thanks, slow sweetness spreading through the air. Much better than the stench from egg shells, which reminded him of hair burning.





















As the poor snot still hung there, dry now, and brittle too, changing color slowly, a new thought provoked. This fire is just an imitation. The primal One up in the sky. In deep freezing space. So nuts, that in the middle of dark frigid nothing, a fireball. Like a spark in an ice cube. Or an icicle in the middle of this fire not melting. But, this tiny fire of his not even coming close to the magnitude of the sun. A faint likeness: heat and light on smaller scale. "It's secondary", he thought, "a supplement. A gift to humans with which they could warm up. Cook. Use for protection.". Sort of almost easy to see how early peoples could worship this fiery globe as Life- giver Supreme. Out there. Up in the sky. Easy to see why later the same peoples put God outside themselves. Again, up in the sky. The "externalists" some called 'em now.






And another memory drifted up from long ago. The vast and desolate spaces of sand, ocean and sky somewhere in Baja. A lonely motherfucker if ever there was. But, early early in the morning, walking. And a faint smell of wood-smoke would come drifting through the stillness, and an inevitable smile would flit across his face. A silent invitation to breakfast. Coffee. Huevos Rancheros... Tortillas... Always it's remained with him as an impression of Old Mexico. In that incredible every-man-is-an-island-kind-of-lonliness, suddenly a feeling of com-munity. Brought on silently by a smell... "That was the birth of Civilization. When humans began using fire," he thought.
Slowly but surely the sun's approach. Upon reflection, not all that slowly. A promise of warmth from fire in the sky much bigger than the one he'd watched. A light, spreading over all, instead of the localized pool of dim brightness barely reaching into darkness. The world begins to grow, en- large. Horizons move further back.
And suddenly it peaks. Jumps out from behind the distant mesas. Every morning the same, but every time it's magic! The birds appear at once, perching on cactus bushes, catching rays to warm themselves, warming up before even eating the grain he's sprinkled earlier. Not yet chirping, except for the thrusher, who begins his song while still it's dark.

The first low rays bringing color and life to everything. The hills, clouds, sculptures in the yard. How many times he's seen this marble, and yet the ever changing light still thrills him, shows something new.

The fire changes and smoke appears where in the dark it wasn't.


It's hard to believe, cuz the sculpture, really, is sort of ugly. Lopsided. The proportions all wrong. She began much different. Drastic changes she's been through, and would be easy enough to fix, to change again and make her easier to look at. Without arising questions about why this, why that? But she's fine as is. She's beautiful as is.





The birds have no complaints, and she wasn't made for markets.