Hi, how are you? I am Elmo on Fire.
Elmo on Fire is anger and joy and exhaustion combined.
Elmo on Fire is the exact feeling that I have when I read about yet another person brought to light as a sexual abuser, harasser, or generally a vile human being who has been smiling and nodding the whole time as if they’ve done nothing.
Elmo on Fire is the feeling when we go through these news cycles every few months, or years, or decades. All of a sudden, sexual violation is a “hot topic” again. Elmo on Fire is reveling in the flames of hot takes, knowing that this moment is destined to be brief.
Elmo on Fire is vindication. I have not received vindication for the trespasses against me, but I soak up the vindication that’s coming for others, rubbing it into my skin like a salve.
Elmo on Fire is vindictiveness — wanting that turn of the knife, even when our foe has fallen. Even though we know it won’t fix anything.
Elmo on Fire is power and powerlessness combined. The power of being a tiny being who can summon the flames of journalistic rigor and strength in community; the powerlessness of being a tiny being, after all, made of felt.
Elmo on Fire is: I just had a daughter, and what kind of world is she going to inherit? The flames illuminate and the smoke stings the eyes. It’s hard to tell. We’re setting a fire, but it’s such a small fire. Or — well, maybe it’s a small fire, but maybe we’re clearing a path. Maybe we’re making way for a new world.
Until the new world arrives, we have to live in this one.
Elmo on Fire is living in this world.
Elmo on Fire is knowing that every single man you’ve ever admired, including goddamn Elmo, is hiding something that he did or that another man did.
Elmo on Fire is the guilt and the shame we all carry.
I am Elmo, burning down the house. I am also in the house. The house has to burn. So do I.
I am Elmo, and in my imagination, I am rising from the depths of Hell, conjuring up demons and skeletal spirits from the underworld to the tune of “Night on Bald Mountain.”
I am Elmo, and in reality, I am 2 feet tall, misshapen and grimacing. The only sound that can be heard beneath the crackle of flames is my uncanny laugh, dissolving into a low rumble as my battery melts.
I am small, and cute, and funny, and also, you should know, I am on fire.
That’s how I’m doing.
How are you?
