As we perhaps find ourselves rocked from our writing with the onslaught of new stimuli, new demands, new interests, it could well be challenging to keep the writing fires burning. I’ll step in and say that today’s word is FIRE.
I’ve never lit a match, and I’ve never told anyone who has not responded with some sort of disbelief. It was just vaguely odd until about ninth grade, at which point it became a tradition. I could really do it now. Just hold it and strike, not so hard, not so dangerous. My 5-year-old cousin can do it. My sister taunts me with it. My friends want to be my first audience. I can’t, but not because it’s lighting a match anymore. I’ve never made fire. I’m really used to looks of disbelief. And I like having something to say.
Julio Cortazar wrote ‘Todos los Fuegos del Fuego.’ It reminds me how fire can be happiness, warmth, passion, anger.
Optimists and hypocrites tell me that ‘donde hubo fuego cenizas quedan.’ I want to hear it, but it’s not a good thing. My pockets are full of ash, my desk is full of ash, my couch is filled with ash. Damn fire.
I knew two smokers in love. They broke up. Their discourse diminished to ‘tienes fuego?’ followed by a search for a lighter, a toss, a catch, and a vestigial flicker of the fire that used to be there, but is gone.