once upon a fire night

encased in the deep shadowed box of the surrounding warehouse buildings, the front of the club is bathed in midnight neon light. a crowd of about thirty mingle raucously at the front by the dj table, cornered like freak cattle behind temporary metal barriers. little groups of talking people, drinks in hand. those gaggles of connection, intrigue, boredom and flirtation. the air thick with cigarette smoke and pheremones. a handful of partiers approaches from the distance in outrageous costumes, the women swaying with arms crossed as they try to navigate the cold, parked cars, and the oil-stained gravel in high heels.

the music is throbbing. it makes me want to move.

taking deep breaths and stretching to calm my nerves, i try to loosen up. my right shoulder is still a little sore from the beach thing, spinning fire as a gift to a graduating group of junior high school students. that gig absolutely kicked my ass. i needed a sherpa just to get back to the car. the soft sand is so taxing to move in, like doing jumping jacks in jello. i had to do more isolations when my legs got exhausted. it about killed dna, too. absolutely love them. a truly great couple doing it right. friends i always enjoy spending time with. and, they know how to put on a show.

final costume adjustments. pull up my socks. loosen the knee pads. package comfortable? waistband? run a grateful hand through the already damp hair before putting back on my black hat. i’m dressed in long, black, billowy thai wraparound pants, black sketchers and socks, black half gloves, an arm band, and the necklace my lady gave me. love rocking the black. a little cold being bare chested, but i’ll be warm in the fire. it’s a wonder i’ve come so far with being comfortable having my torso exposed. i remember too clearly feeling mostly like an irritated, beached whale, never wanting to share my belly with anybody. feeling slimmer and tighter again, almost where i was post-playa last year. nice to feel sexy. does a self good.

ditching the gum. a little more water. more. another breath. k is spinning his staff off in the middle of the street. the fuel is tucked away from the performance area, by the trash cans at the side of the club. a few feet away, one of the door guys looks bored out of his mind; the other is lasciviously looking at a brunette in a short skirt. she’s got a nice ass.

“we’re on”

i walk to the fuel, adjusting my gloves. i need to tailor their replacements- don’t like they way one of them is starting to curl at my palm. my fire hoop is resting against the wall, six blackened spokes speaking of the recent practice. i’ve beaten the hell out of that thing learning how to firehoop. but, i can’t wait for the new one to arrive. can’t wait for new wicks. i wonder what kind of adjustment it will be transitioning to a considerably lighter hoop?

i pick up my green and black, battle firehoop, double check that the wicks are screwed in tightly. once over of the hoop. relatively circular? tape tight? good.

kneeling to open up my ammo can. the sticker on the side says, “cleverly disguised as a responsible adult”. it’s about 3/4 full with lamp oil and white gas. as i crack the lid, i’m hit with that familiar fuel smell that seeps into my clothing. try not to breath it in- don’t want to think about toxicity issues at the moment. my wicks look worn out. beat the hell out of them, too, and this is like my, what, forth or fifth set of wicks?

as each one goes into the fuel bath, i start the slow count to ten in my head, and turn to see how the performance is progressing. k is getting into his zone. he is one of the most graceful staff spinners i’ve seen. great flow.

7-8-9-10. i pull the dripping wick out, shaking it lightly. rotate clockwise to the next wick. submerge. two. 2. 3. turn my head back to the fire.

the crowd is loving the show. what started as a few similarly turned heads has mushroomed into a dedicated, delighted audience, 3 or 4 rows deep. more people are coming outside to watch, squeezing in to poise their drinks somewhat precariously over the waist-high barricades.

10. rotate. submerge. three. 2. 3.

“great spin man”, i yell as k comes over to put down his staff. he’s bathed in a sheen of sweat- a little flushed. he’s got his relaxed smile on, the smoke from his tired wicks trailing behind him into the night air. he reminds me of a cheshire cat who has just apparated. (is apparated actually a word or am i just quoting harry potter?)

“thanks.” he replies.

“how’d it feel?”

“it felt good… there were a few things i wanted to do, but…..yeah…yeah, it was good… you ready to rock it like a bad motherfucker?”

“always”, i grin. i close the can, struggling a bit with the clasp one-handed, as my soaked hoop waits in my other outstretched hand. i stand up, adjust the back of my kneepads again (ouch) and walk away to shake off the excess fuel. the music is still pumping. sweet.

wish i’d taken a piss. fuck.

away from the activity, i whip the hoop a few times in my right hand vertically, the excess fuel spraying off into the air. it’s a fine balance. i don’t want to spray the audience with napalm, but i want as much fuel as i can burn. these wicks always go out too quickly. the new ones will make a difference, but i’m starting to wonder how much the speed at which i hoop plays a part?

i start loping back to the performance area in time with the music. shake off my shoulders. big exhale. time to get into character. wish i had my sunglasses.

j is just finishing up with double fire hoops. she is a born performer: charming, sexy, graceful. inherently knows how to connect with an audience. i admire how quickly she can transition into performing. sometimes i hit it. sometimes only for a moment; sometimes i’m deep blissing in my flow for an orgasmic timelessness. sometimes i chase it without ever achieving it.

nice move. she’s got one firehoop at her waist, the other atop her outstretched hand.

she dances back momentarily and sees me. she is almost done- her wicks are starting to sputter out. i shift more attention to the music. try to anticipate where the transitions might be. j winks that she is about ready to switch.

i close my eyes and breath. alright, let’s do this like a buddhist, kahunahula! all you’ve got! engage. if you fuck up, recover. find the flow. and don’t take it so seriously. it’s just a fucking hula hoop. have a blast!

j bows and pirouettes back with one remaining lit wick. the crowd is cheering wildly. rush of adrenaline. in a familiar sequence of movement she starts lighting my wicks. as each one catches, the bright light flares up, the dark smoke begins and another voice is added to the chorus of white noise. i make sure my hands and costume are away from the flames. as i wait for the final wicks to light in that purgatory.

click. one wick won’t light. click of lighter. click. click. dammit. (i know i dipped them all. hate to go on with an unlit wick but don’t want to burn too much fuel lighting.)

there it goes. it’s windier than it looks; even starting to gust a little bit. will need to keep that in mind. keep my tosses low at first and see what the drift is like.

“thank you”

i turn towards the audience. i am met with a wash of cheering, expectant faces beyond the glare of the flames. i walk to the center of the space and adjust my hoop to a place of beginning. jack directly into the music. almost at the transition. 4. 3. 2…

breath. and commit.