fire of love

the metaphorical volcano, human understanding, dancing

Fire of Love is a documentary of mostly primary clips recorded by a volcanologist couple, Katia and Maurice Krafft, whose life missions were to climb up, study, and profile active volcanoes together. They lost their lives to an eruption on Mount Unzen, Japan, in 1991.

The videos were eerily beautiful – billowing grey smoke engulfing whole mountains. Lava running into ocean. The little Mission cinema lit up with its colors. Deep yellow. Glowing magma. Dark burgundy. From the Roger Ebert blog, citing Pedro Almodovar, it isn't enough for a film to move: it needs to dance. This movie dances.

What the movie actually ended up being to me was a tribute to how perfect knowledge of anything is unattainable. The volcanologists climb up hundreds of volcanoes only to conclude that most are un-classifiable, mysterious and grandiose. No organic thing, person, or concept remains stagnant. Nothing stays the same shape for long.

I’ve been thinking about that overall sentiment a lot. The conquest of understanding anything fully feels fruitless, but the extra 10% makes it feel worthwhile.

For example, understanding my body even a fraction more feels like witnessing a miracle. I enjoy lifting weights because change feels so tangible. You keep stacking a few small plates on top of one another and one day your baseline level of strength just adjusts. It’s the same with people, isn’t it? That extra 10% is measured in centimeters. Micromoments. How they clean their countertops. Which fruit they prod at and eventually pick at the grocery store. How they communicate what they want when it’s a bit scary. What they find beautiful, fascinating. Suddenly you’re a lot closer and you’re like, what happened? I didn’t love you and then one day I did.

That’s the extra 10%. The threshold between the ordinary and the sublime, between a sensation being labelled mild or painful, between infatuation and love.

Of course, it has to be said: sometimes gaining understanding also means losing the sweetness of oblivion.

I can remember specific moments: holing out in the Starbucks bathroom on 39th street, shivering in the King’s Cross St Pancras station in the middle of January, walking home after work in Atlanta – the snow dribbling softly down. In these moments I a) couldn’t change someone’s mind, b) really fucked up, c) felt very alone.

But I also felt sharp clarity, legibility. What the other person wanted. What I wanted. The expanding gap between the two. That’s just growing up. Nothing changes. Then it all does. Closeness. Distance. The aftermath is standing there, waiting for you to hold it in the cold.

The film whirred in the darkness: Understanding is love’s other name.

To me, love is the attempt to understand. Despite knowing you could look your whole life for absolute comprehension and never find it. Effort toward it is everything. It’s why the two volcanologists climb up volcano after volcano. Ceaseless pursuit of knowing, witnessing even 1% more.

Perhaps the familiar allows newness to emerge. See, I believe everything in the world has its own poetry. Similar ideas; different metaphors. The same climb can have a million different meanings. Going through life with the same person can feel like knowing many different people. This sentiment by Elisa Gabbert really resonated with me: I write about the same things over and over because I find I have more to say.

Part of writing is excavating what I care about, look closely at, revisit again and again. Understanding arises from the observation of these aspects. Jose Ortega: Tell me what you pay attention to, and I will tell you who you are.

And yet, of course, there are things I purposely omit on here. My views on psychedelics and alcohol, my job, particular partners or romantic experiences. I haven’t yet decided how much to share, how much I can share while still being private. While still being truthful. It requires nuance. I’m not sure where I am on that scale yet. But my hope is that my writing can be the way through to better understanding. At least of myself.

One of my favorite scenes in the movie is this hauntingly beautiful image: Katia and Maurice, the two volcanologists, standing on the edge of an erupting volcano, dancing.

At some points in your life, you come to stand at the corner of your own abyss. You look into its gaping maw. It’s strange, there’s always a little bit of vertigo. Wanting to jump. Beyond logic. Beyond comprehension.

Something animal, human, in us reckons with this feeling. Everything potent and beautiful dances on the divide between what we understand and what we will never be able to.

-N.

---

Quote of the Week

True definition of science: the study of the beauty of the world.
― Simone Weil

Photo of the Week

I am painting again and really loving it. I usually set around 3-4 hours and finish one piece in that time — I did this set of hands last Friday :) Anyone have painting music recommendations? I ended up listening to the new Beyoncé album.