Uncontrolled Substances

Uncontrolled Substances - Samuel Parigela (Orange County School of the Arts, 12th Grade)

It was getting dark. The 8pm in winter kind of dark–enough to be doing sparklers on a rocky coastline without being stranded in the real dark. 

And that’s what they were doing. My parents and older sister– pros. The kind of pro that I would want to be at a number of video games I play. Effortless risk-taking without breaking a sweat, all while completing the task at hand and doing more. 

I had never done sparklers before. I had seen others light them, mostly on TV. Sparklers were… scary. Uncontrollable masses of fire, or sparks, or maybe both. I wasn’t sure. And I didn’t plan on finding out through experience. 

But it wasn’t the ‘fire’ part that scared me. Fire was a congenial friend of mine. Burned as I wanted it to, moldable to some extent as to where you wanted it to go. It always faced upwards, as if it served a higher calling, a sort of arcane, esoteric purpose. Striking matches, in particular, fascinated me. To me, it was more of a pastime than a task, but it served the latter well. The match represented the zenith of human innovation in assisting with the technicalities of daily problems, while conserving the practicality and satisfaction that technology has trampled upon. Matches were more than the disposable red-tipped sticks you buy at Walmart. Matches represented a way of life. 

But with sparklers, it was the ‘uncontrollable’ aspect that warded me off, frightened me to a point that was almost irrational. 

My sister proceeded to light the sparkler. Sparks flew everywhere. They truly were uncontrollable. Bursting with energy, the sparks seemed like they would consume everything in their path, leaving destruction in their wake. I didn’t want to become a victim of a prolonged explosion. And that’s what it was. Take any good bomb or explosive and detonate it. The explosion itself–the reaction to impact–wouldn’t last nearly as long as the sparkler. This was no match. This was the match’s angry, drunk, psychotic, high-on-ecstasy uncle. Not a cool person, in summary. I stood the proper six feet away, respecting the health of the sparkler and myself. More myself, though. 

The pictures turned out great, for one. Against the backdrop of a bluish-black sky, the vivid, bright-as-the-sun sparks stood out. But that wasn’t enough to convince me. My sister drew shapes in the dark, moving the sparkler in zig-zags, making controlled lines and angles. She wrote “Happy 2024!” in the air as I captured it on video. The uncontrolled substance was being tamed into generic shapes rather than the chaotic, organic starbursts appearing when it was held still. Maybe moving it fast enough would cause the sparks to submit to the passing air and be less of a hazard. 

After watching my both parents do it as well, I sensed that I was supposed to follow. I took a deep breath and subsequently engaged in civil disobedience against public health safety measures by being only 5 feet and 11 inches from the sparkler, and approaching closer. What am I doing? I’ll have to do it anyway. 

I picked up the sparkler from its paper box. I didn’t light it–no way was I doing that. And the lighting was done using matches, how ironic! I don’t remember much of the actual lighting, choosing to look away from the stick going haywire in my hand, and at the crab that was crawling around somewhere in the tidepools. I felt the sparks nearing my fingertips, the unpredictable flecks of fire glowing brighter in the corner of my eye. I began to wiggle the head of the stick around in an effort to calm the angry flames. “Make a heart!” my sister said, and I looped the sparkler around, smiling unsteadily for photos, eyes still watching the tide pool crab. The sparkler died suddenly, fizzling out sooner than I thought it would. Oh. I asked for another, to the surprise of my family, and again asked for it to be lit–I wasn’t messing with that. I made circles, triangles, pentagons, dodecahedrons, you name it. Afterimages of glowing lines stayed in my sensory memory and formed pictures that I had drawn in the sky with a flame. There I was, controlling the uncontrollable. 

… 

Did I survive? Well, I sure hope so. 

On July 4th, 2024, I picked up a sparkler, staring at the wooden dowel under the flammable material. It was really just a long match. “Hurry up, it’s getting dark!” my sister prodded, although it was already pretty dark. Not completely dark in the true sense of the word. But dark enough to be doing sparklers on a rocky coastline without being stranded in the real dark. 

And that’s what we were doing…