Thursday, February 11, 2010

Fire Signs #1

A spark, a flame: A fire.
Stolen long ago from the gods by Prometheus, who was forever punished. Tied to a rock, his liver torn out and consumed, by an eagle no less. Over and over again. The liver, you see, being reinstated to aid the punishment. The (same?) eagle hungry and knowing just where to find a quick bit to take away. Maybe feed the chicks. Dress it in a little sauce. This was all in hell you see, so the pun, 'devilled liver', comes clattering along. A cliché formed of too much heat, too much light. Little imagination. Poor Prometheus.
For providing a bit of heat, a bit of light, a bit of imagination. Humans become gods, having fire. Keeping it to themselves or hurling it full force at each other. Too much heat, too much light. Too little imagination.
Really a natural occurrence created by nature, managed now by humans. Oxidation of what have you by means of combustion, which produces heat and light and crap, which can be managed by the imagination.  All quite temporary, once the what have you is used up, that's it: the fire goes out. So it has to be managed.
Project managed, with timelines and deliverables and milestones that are millstones. Ample heat, ample light. Too much imagination. We have so little to do, having heat and light, that the imagination will not be tied to a rock, only to have its liver eaten out. No.
The liver, you see, filters out the excess. Stops you poisoning yourself, or overdosing on a life of too much heat, too much light. This is what imagination has to do. See the similarity there. Taking the overflow, the nasty crap, helping you filter it out. Leaving you with hope, or dreams or whatnot that keeps you going when you throw your arms up in the air and say "I can't go on!"
And, you know, none of it makes sense, because all I'm doing here is lighting a cigarette.