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November 8th, 2007

black cat reverie


Old Ted, 13 this month, originally uploaded by gurdonark.

Long ago, I knew a boy who collected bottle rockets. He could recite from memory a detailed inventory of his fireworks holdings. This form of arms race I vaguely understood. Collection of relatively valueless things of personal intrinsic value I understand. A look at my garage might affirm my understanding, or call into question the logic of my understanding.

I love the "whfft" whistle when a bottle rocket first takes off. I even love the "fsst fsst" spark festival when a rocket has an unsuccessful take-off. In my childhood, any firework was banned unless it either had no blast or flew away from one. We lit many a rocket, and watched them Sputnik away into the lower reaches of the horizon.

I live my life even yet today with a sharp memory of the pungent smell of pastel-colored smoke from a smoke bomb. Although it is years since I lit one, I mentally count out the flaming arsenal emitting from a roman candle. I loved the sight of sparklers waving, and of making little kaleidoscopic patterns in mid-air.