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 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.