fire

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That Which Blazes

“She will blaze through you like a gypsy wildfire. Igniting your soul and dancing in its flames. And when she is gone, the smell of her smoke will be the only thing left to soothe you…”
Nicole Lyons

Dame Laura Knight – Gypsy Splendour (Fine Feathers), 1938.

Posted by Ravenous Butterflies

Does everything that blazes burn out? Turn to ashes? In the end, is it all just a matter of changing form? So. Capture that which we love in Art, and Faith, and Memory. Only to forget when the mind wanders of its own before or after its time as marked by the world. Embrace Ecstasy.

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And But Then Good Grief

Really. Books moved and dropped and yet again with the fire. I set the oven on fire yesterday, as is my seeming need to start fires and it’s been quite a while. The short version: plastic item left in the oven, a preheat setting that caused melting and mess. So off we went. A whole heck of a lot of smoke, rolling like clouds, and small flames jutting through the burners on top. Inside the oven, an amazingly attractive and petite melt of strings and pearls. The photos do not due justice.

The one on the right looks like a rather nice abstract. It is quite original at least. The white puddle inside the oven looks like a large blob of white pudding.

I ended up with forms to rival that of the crayons melted in a child’s Easy-Bake Oven.

I soldier on.

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About The Kantaberry Tales

Philosophy Matters

It seems to me that Kant is regularly and unnecessarily picked on. Why? Why is it such sport to make fun of the man? Oh, and a story that I just love:

Kant kept setting himself on fire. As a result, his housekeeper would have to rush in and save him from a hot and painful death. Why? How? We ask. Kant lived in the time of candles to read by, having no electricity. In the evenings after dining, he would settle into his chair for the evening read. Often he would prepare himself for bed prior to settling in, including a night cap designed to keep out the cold.

He would often nod off, the tail of his night cap dangling dangerously close to a burning candle. Eventually the tassel on the end would catch fire, quickly spreading to the rest of his evening attire and him. His housekeeper, on the lookout for the not infrequent occurrence, would rush into the room and put out the fire—and Emanuel.

Apparently his philosophical ruminations did not include lessons learned and the remannering of self. Oh well, we all have blind spots.