Photo by Jennifer Hryck

Tonight, under a waning crescent moon, in a Brooklyn warehouse, three friends made magic together in the name of art.

When I found myself beside them, I was covered in the mud of my land. The dirt from the mountain, the land that once held my home. The home that was taken by the fire, the home that left little clues of its existence in the dirt…a broken plate here, a piece of scattered yellow glass, a chip of its mint green paint.

The mud was still on me when I landed in Brooklyn, when Flambeaux and Abby pulled me into the warehouse. They are Phoenixes themselves….having lost everything in a fire two years ago. We are here together to create something magic…to create fantasy among the flames. The two of them lifted a huge crown on me, made by Flambeaux’s hands….three fire tails arch down the back, the metal twisted perfectly to fit my face.

I saw myself in the warehouse through a mirror… I saw myself with the crown on, fire arching to the sky. I blinked because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I saw my eyes in the mirror and the flames plumed around me. The fire and I as perfect partners in a dance. We wear the flames always, whether they are visible to the human eye or not, they are part of our history.

Flambeaux, King of Fire
Photo by Naked Artichoke

When we perform together it is more than just a show, my Friends.   It is a celebration of life itself.

It is a convergence of when the Phoenixes rise.

Fire. Ritual. Seduction.