I came home from Birmingham to a 40-foot bonfire today. It was a nice welcome home, except that there was no party, no beer, no music, nothing. Just a giant fire burning bright and crackly all by itself in the field between my house and the train tracks. Shane and I were heading out to grab some food, and we were the first people to go scope it out. Eventually a few other neighbors showed up, but that was about it. The fire department came and watched it burn with us.

I guess the word on the street is that the sculpture of a Native American tipi was some sort of tribute to his son, who was represented by the sperm-like shape in the middle. Today is rumored to be the artists’ and his wife’s anniversary or something, and so he snuck out to the sculpture and lit it on fire in celebration before sneaking out.

The bonfire was originally supposed to be a part of Le Flash, which is the festival of light that traditionally kicks off Atlanta Celebrates Photography every October, but they couldn’t secure the proper permits. The fire department knew some rascally Castleberry Hill resident might try and set it off, so they sprayed the sculpture with flame-retardant. We’ve had some rain since October 1st, so I reckon the flame-retardant has since washed off just in time for the anniversary.