I'm an arsonist at heart. I light fires tentatively, with much trepidation and little tolerance for heat. I shy away from the ensuing flame, and usually panic when it reaches my hand. I've only let a matchstick burn to my fingertips once, and that was just to find out how it felt. But I'm an arsonist at heart.
I look at the oil slick, curving its way from the car. Its bends are lazy, pronounced. Like a section of a river that flows slowly over the ground, knowing its reduced speed, almost enjoying it. The slick is thick in clusters, where the bubbles inside the oil almost threaten to burst. The oil dries away before it reaches me, its riverbank a small lump of gravel that the oil bubbles collect against, rising in number, like a protest that goes on eternally. I just stare at the oil. It looks so inviting, so delicious. A matchstick might be enough, a box of matchsticks better. A lit up Zippo might have been perfect.
I'm scared of flames. I've sprayed deodorant at candles, to see the flame rush forwards. I've burnt matchboxes on gas ovens, just to see the low, glossy green flame. The only flame I've managed to conquer my fear over is the little candle flame that you pass your fingers through. But I'm an arsonist. I'd like to set fire to that stick of dynamite, just to hear what it does, see what it blows. Somewhere, I can hear Johnny Rotten laughing.
I look at the oil slick, curving its way from the car. Its bends are lazy, pronounced. Like a section of a river that flows slowly over the ground, knowing its reduced speed, almost enjoying it. The slick is thick in clusters, where the bubbles inside the oil almost threaten to burst. The oil dries away before it reaches me, its riverbank a small lump of gravel that the oil bubbles collect against, rising in number, like a protest that goes on eternally. I just stare at the oil. It looks so inviting, so delicious. A matchstick might be enough, a box of matchsticks better. A lit up Zippo might have been perfect.
I'm scared of flames. I've sprayed deodorant at candles, to see the flame rush forwards. I've burnt matchboxes on gas ovens, just to see the low, glossy green flame. The only flame I've managed to conquer my fear over is the little candle flame that you pass your fingers through. But I'm an arsonist. I'd like to set fire to that stick of dynamite, just to hear what it does, see what it blows. Somewhere, I can hear Johnny Rotten laughing.
Comments
I think you love the melodrama, the bigness of it.
That's so like little children daring each other to play with fire while being scared of it at the same time. I'm no arsonist but I cut out this picture from a newspaper once - a man self-immolating. I used to obsess over it and fantasize about it - what would it be like to actually burn yourself, how would it feel? I still have the cutting.
I love the descriptions, all of them, you've built the piece so well, mashAllah. The 'I'm an arsonist at heart' repetition makes it sound slightly paranoid. Remember
that Edgar Allen Poe tale which starts off with the man asserting he is not mad and then trying to prove it at each turn of the story? That's what it reminds me of. It's very effective.
Why won't you write more often? You really should - it's not just a talent, it's a responsibility.
sports freak: no, I don't think that's the case. It's more the flame that is interesting, specially the little core you get if there's no wind and a small concentrate of material. It's what attracted me to flames in the first place.
pokerface: you're right about the repetition, that is what I meant to do. Slightly paranoid and trying to convince otherwise. But I don't think I like the bigness of fire. I just like the way it glows, on and on, if you keep staring at it. I love candles, oven flames, grills. I hate fires. They're so . . orange and ugly. It's the non-luminous flames I love.