Tinderbox



Choose a place. Theo is in his bed.

Choose a time. He is waking up, his body struggling against the alarm beeps of wakefulness, grabbing out and reaching for the sheer webbed strings of fast fading sleep. They vaporize, leaving behind a head ache, sand speckled mouth and dying embers of a bad dream. He clings to his blankets seeking comfort and warmth in its dull darkness and soft smug caress. It reeks of an unwashed moistness that has never felt the curative light of sunshine. He is awake, full of despair and annoyance at the prospect of facing unchanging, repetitive life for another day.

Choose a miracle. He passes it by, not noticing much. He is eager to get to the blank dirty whiteness of his bath, to look away from his reflection in its stained cracked mirror. He does not know that there is a God below his bed and another in the corner- the darkest unlit part where the brown paper wall meets a cupboard at the bend.

There are two Gods in one tiny room in an apartment that is falling apart with chinks of ceiling, wet bloated seep cracks and unexpected iron rods poking out of the unpainted cement work. They are guests in a room with one window, whose panes rattle at the sound of passing trains every fifth minute and filter in whistles, grunts, laughter and honks from every direction that is faced. The Gods will stay on for a while, flexing their Godly muscles, carrying out the duty of divinity and the incalculable precision work of mind numbing micro management. They are here for the regulation of universal laws and natural function.

Choose an identity. You can name the Gods as you please. You can call them Iris and Osiris. Hera and Heracles. Ra and Petra. Indra and Kama. They can play the part that you like. They can have the curve or the bulk, carry the weapon of choice and narrate a back story of love and lust or a moral play on the tragedy of men. They will dissolve into the light and reappear as darkness and sleep. They stay on long after the end of this story, in that same corner, doing what they do best- giving no meaning to life and pretending that there is one.

Choose another place. Theo is at a McDonald’s. He is waiting his turn behind two boys and a girl. He is alone. He is in a city that does not speak his language. Around him is the whirring dull noise of chatter and the bright blood redness with glass boxes and slippery floors. Enlarged pictures of food look down upon him like Gods from the altar, in accentuated colors and slick stylized frames. He is vaguely attracted to the girl standing ahead of him. Her perfume distracts him-heightened by the exposed skin of her neck with a dull green butterfly tattooed in. She can be the love of his life that he will never meet or speak to.

Choose another time. It is Saturday evening. The city is buzzing with young people full of life and loud joy. They come in pairs and groups of girls and boys in stylish clothes and waft around in mingled sweet smells and restless happiness. They have filled up the McDonald’s, tucking in fries and shakes and burgers from white paper folds, before they hurry away in their painted chariots with loud pounding music to the congregation of youth and the now.

Choose another miracle. The girl smiles at him. She has walked up to his table near the glass box with the kids-meal plastic toys of cartoon animals. He has forgotten her, easily abstracted by the sense of his loneliness and the sight of several young women in beautiful attire. She asks him if it’s ok if she sits at his table. She is from the music class he goes to. She is new to the city and she wonders if he could show her around sometime, if he is doing nothing else. They converse freely in five minutes. They discuss people in the class, their cities; they show off, they immerse themselves in the exercise of self exposition. They do it very well- the thrusting of voluntary ambiguity into descriptions of their mundane lives- adding sheen and color and polishing in, through words, looks, gestures and smiles, that all important attractiveness to themselves. Soon, they will be in an explosion.

Choose another identity. You can choose to be there yourself, eavesdropping into their chatter. You can let somebody write it for you as a story and shock you with unexpected twists and ends. You can marvel at the self-satisfied arrogance in tone and the assuredness of the touch. You can opt for the omniscient voice.