Random Thoughts on Fireworks by Jennifer L. Knox

One story is that gunpowder was invented circa 500 A.D. in China by a cook using saltpeter as a spice, which was far more common in ancient China than salt. He noticed how the saltpeter burned brightly and long, mixed it charcoal and sulfur, stuffed the compound into bamboo tubes, and blew the tubes up to scare away bad spirits.

“Scaring away bad spirits” is a popular explanation for the forces that propelled mankind in making ancient discoveries. So are “attracting a mate” and “defending territory.”

Other sources say an alchemist invented it. The scene: China, 500 A.D.: a barge slowly moving across a river. The passenger is a crooked man in orange monk robes. His face is horribly scarred with burns—it looks more like tree bark than a face. He’s missing seven fingers. The scrawny, shirtless barge driver can barely look the monk in the eyes when he asks, “So…what do you do for a living?” “I’m an alchemist.” It could’ve been an Ernie Kovach’s sketch.

I grew up in a teensy Last Picture Show kind of town in the California desert. More people gathered to watch the fourth of July fireworks show at Lane Park than my entire town’s population. Isolated people drove in from the deep desert, out where Tex Watson had his ranch—farmers, Basque sheep herders, end-of-the-worlders,  dope growers, meth cookers…

Lane Park was one square mile. Maybe because the earth was so flat, or the air so bright, you could see clearly all the way to the other side park—people getting out of cars, laying out blankets, and plunking down—could make out details of their faces and clothing. Like the 105-degree air was a magnifying lense. But even with the whole town plus in attendance, the park was as sparsely populated as Saskatchewan. Everybody had their choice of spots. No doubt this detail occurs to me now because I live in New York.

The sun took forever to set, and then…

In the desert, July is as dry as a baked sweater. Fireworks were illegal in Los Angeles county, except in city displays. There were always editorials in the local paper about whether to have the show, but the park kept on doing it. They’re still doing it! Higher-ups probably assumed that, if citizens couldn’t watch  the big ones at the park,  they’d drive three hours down to Mexico, buy their own, and light them off in their yellowing yards full of dead grass, weeds and wilting trees. People did that anyway, all year long, but maybe a little less so.

One year our next-door neighbors, the Untertheiners, left their St. Bernard, Lilly, alone in the house for the holiday weekend. When the fireworks started, Lilly lost her mind and jumped the back fence. She threw herself against our unlocked front door until she got it open. We came home and found Lilly trembling on my parent’s bed. I had always been afraid of Lilly (among countless other things) because she was so big, but not after that. Even I wasn’t afraid of fireworks.

Living in Japan, I watched an attentive father light off a bottle rocket held in the hands of his wobbly two year-old son. The father acted like he was teaching his son how to hold a frog. Neither was afraid. “We don’t allow small children to hold fireworks,” I said to the mother, who spoke English. “Why?” “I don’t know...maybe we’re afraid they’ll hurt themselves.” “Hm...maybe you are afraid of fire.” I’ve heard that Americans are more afraid of fire than other cultures. Something stemming from frontier times, because whole towns were made out of wood. We even write songs about it. But Japanese houses have always been made out of wood—and paper. All their walls are made out of paper. Why aren’t they more afraid of fire?

In Roger Bacon’s 1267 Opus Majus, he discusses mathematics, the possible invention of steamships,  airplanes, and hydraulic engines, deterministic astrology, empirical evidence, and gunpowder.  “But, however, of saltpetre take six parts, live of young willow (charcoal), and five of sulphur, and so you will make thunder and lightning, and so you will turn the trick.”

Cooking is considered by most to be an art form, though its finest works are ephemeral . Same with music. So why not fireworks? Is it the chemistry? Baking is chemistry. Paint is chemistry. Is it their inherent danger? Here’s a fun fact: every year, more  people die at horrible poetry readings than at firework shows.

The basic types of fireworks are the Peony (a spherical burst of colored stars—most common) the Chrysanthemum (same as the  peony, but stars leave a visible trail of sparks) the Dahlia (same shape as a peony, but with fewer and larger stars) the Willow (a soft weeping willow-like effect) the Palm (large comet stars with tendrils—a burst of color inside the palm from another shell could be used to simulate coconuts) the Ring (variations include smiley faces, hearts, and clovers) the Kamuro (Japanese for boy’s bowl-shaped haircut—a dense burst of stars leaving a heavy glitter trail) the Crossette (several large stars that break with a loud crackling sound) the Horsetail or the Waterfall (long-burning stars that fall glitteringly) and the Fish or Bees (stars that propel themselves rapidly away from the shell burst).

I thought I’d include the names of fireworks because we’re poets, and sometimes the names of things may be the easiest, most poetic way to describe them.

 Ephemeral art doesn’t leave much time for us to subjectify it. It may inspire us to a simile or metaphor , but to just say what it is (cherry ice cream), what it does (it sings) or how it moves (a dense burst of stars leaving a heavy glitter trail)—those words don’t come close to the thing itself.

But we’re poets, so we keep looking for ways to write the thing, and thereby own it. The thing itself dazzles in the mouth, the eye, the ear, the nose, on the fingertips indifferently and disappears.

Image top: Jim Flora

 

Comments

[Jason Schneiderman]

Dahlia's are the best!! -Jason.