I remember that you were supposed to smear them on your arms and face. I’m not sure I ever did that. It was another time, and the glowing death-smear war-paint of fireflies was a portal into a magic world: so very distant and misunderstood in large swathes of want. There was an element of fear in my hesitations.
Sometime the other is the object of a different kind of desire.
But I did watch them rise from the spongy ground. I came out of the trailer to watch them – the blades of grass cutting my bare feet, and the clammy evening pinching the skin on my arms. The world was liminal. As was I.
Leaving childhood: leaving the unexamined wholeness of the world.
Before lines are drawn, and boxes are stacked, to make a kind of sense of it all. A kind of sense partitioned from the body’s senses.
Experience is teased apart and analyzed by a present self: like a wine connoisseur remarking on the raspberry, the sulfur.
What cold imagination: judgement requisite to shame.
True wonder is necessarily destructive. A privilege to be harnessed within the space of a barefoot, naked circle.