Ever since I was a little kid, I have been a pyromaniac.
I understand pulchritude in the corpus of fire, its shape, arrays and radiant colors.
Its eminent heat and energy. How elegantly it licks, sucks and swallows…
My first memory of fire involved watching a middle-aged black man walking down the street. The black man paused midstride and pulled out a small square of silver from his coat pocket.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer The black man had these gargantuan hands, and with the plump ball of his thumb, he flicked open the silver square, and KERRRRCH, the most magnificent tiny bulb of orange appeared and arose; this spectacular little triangle of light that he controlled so masterfully. He then lifted the flickering flame up to a cigarette, and POOOOF! a small cloud of smoke burst and purled from his mouth.
Transfixed, I craned my neck as my housekeeper led me down the street to our awaiting driver, and I stared in awe at the miraculous power this magical black man beheld. He noticed me staring too and smiled at me and winked, looked away, checked his watch and sauntered off.
After that, anytime I saw fire, I could not avert my eyes from it.
On the TV, I came to adore action cartoons and movies, especially their explosions, watching the heroes jump away from bombs and burning buildings.
I would secretly wish, though, the heroes would instead dive into the explosions so I could see the fire singe and scorch them, and I would pause, rewind, and rewatch blasts and detonations over and over and over again.
The news too, I came to love, after I passed by the televisions in Father’s office, and one of the televisions was tuned to the news while Father was on a business call.
Behind Father was a row of wall-mounted widescreen televisions, carved into the oak paneling, and on one of the televisions was live news coverage of a quaint, single-family house on fire, firefighters fecklessly battling the blaze with retardant and water cannons.
Father in a sweater vest, his arms on his hips, his shiny white hair slicked back, was yelling frantically, something about “tax shelters,” his angry face pointing and pecking at one of the speaker phones on his mahogany desk, and he was screaming like mad at the phone, at the top of his lungs, as I stood and watched the fire, in awe, and my heart skipped a beat as the small house crumbled, succumbed to flame.
I did not know the news had fires, but after knowing it did, I would watch the news, every day, hoping to hear about any fires. I would watch either in Father’s office, or in the kitchen, as the chefs prepared meals (and there I could also stare
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer at the rings of beautiful blue flames licking phosphorescently under the pots and pans).