I recently saw a man eat fire. He got hooked on the freak shows as a youngster. He always sought out the secretive end of the runway when the carnival came to his small town each summer. He paid a quarter to enter the mysterious tent, the divide between two magnificent stars—his world and theirs. The barking, hawking, and spinning, psychedelic Ferris wheel followed him in, and he sat, always in the front row, the footlights his intentional friend.
That boy, now a man, a craftsman, eats for those that ate before, and they grin, smoldering underground. There is no trick to his art, he shares. It’s not coal fire, or some other illusion, sham, or salve slathered on his face, lips, and throat—it's controlled, essential breathing, saliva, and a willingness to get burned for the thing you love and cherish and honor. His hope is that another saucer-eyed kid in the crowd picks up the torch.
We watch and ooh and ahh, and the flame departs. And then it's back. Then black. And we are extinguished.
Eat, chew.
Baubles, rivers, and glowing glass.
Amputate your tongue.
Savor deeply amid blood.
Romance and remorse.
Climb, gallop, a hero’s horse.
Dripping, forever ink.
Wild hands vanished, clay.
Whilst mediums channel, imagine.
Air, water, and words.
All passing fire this way.
To forge, to sear for love.
Past and present, a seer.
As moons bequeath suns.
One.
I lived near Venice Beach for a time, just down the boardwalk from the Venice Freak Show. I saw the dog-faced man walking to work all the time, carrying a briefcase. I always assumed it was filled with hair care products. I never considered how much it weighed.
A girlfriend and I had a really wonderful encounter with a "Fat Lady" at a freak show once. It was almost closing time and we had a real conversation, plus I poured her a drink from her hidden private stash.