If you have "no place to go," come here!

The fire caught fire!


Anyhow, I had to do a little research in my prosthetic memory, Google, because I had my classical allusions all mixed up.

No, I didn't want lyrics from The Crazy World of Arthur Brown--"I am the God of hell fire!"--I wanted words from Eugene Ionesco's The Bald Soprano. (And Ionesco is so much more appropriate even than Kafka these days, wouldn't you say?) These words:

"The Fire"

The polypoids were burning in the wood

A stone caught fire

The castle caught fire

The forest caught fire

The men caught fire

The women caught fire

The birds caught fire

The fish caught fire

The water caught fire

The sky caught fire

The ashes caught fire

The smoke caught fire

The fire caught fire

Everything caught fire

Caught fire, caught fire.

MRS. MARTIN: That sent chills up my spine...

MR. MARTIN: And yet there's a certain warmth in those lines...

"The fire caught fire..." I love it.

Because that's how I feel.

The image isn't from Lebanon. Or Iraq. Or Afghanistan. Or Pakistan. Or India. It's Morongo Valley, California, where we also get one of the great metaphorical headlines: Officials fear fires will merge.

Which is what I really do fear: That the fire in Lebanon will merge with the fire in Syria with the fire in Iran with the fire in Iraq with the fire in Pakistan...

And that fire will leap from the Middle East to Manhattan (again) or Philly or LA or Chicago or Houston or ...

All because the flaming assholes inside the Beltway --all of whom have their own bunkers, of course--decided to flick a lit match into Iraq.

Nice work, guys.

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