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Trained in literature and entrepreneurship, Rainey is the founder of Glasstire, the online magazine of visual art in Texas and the oldest online-only art magazine in the country. In 2019, she stepped down as publisher after over 18 years at the helm.

She is currently editing a book about the Rice Gallery and writing for magazines.

Rainey has spoken or written about arts journalism at Emory University, the USC Annenberg School, the El Paso Museum of Art, the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth, College Arts Association, the National Endowment for the Arts, and other places. She has also spoken about caregiving at Houston Methodist Hospital. She lives in Houston.

Trained in literature and entrepreneurship, Rainey is the founder of Glasstire, the online magazine of visual art in Texas and the oldest online-only art magazine in the country. In 2019, she stepped down as publisher after over 18 years at the helm.

She is currently editing a book about the Rice Gallery and writing for magazines.

Rainey has spoken or written about arts journalism at Emory University, the USC Annenberg School, the El Paso Museum of Art, the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth, College Arts Association, the National Endowment for the Arts, and other places. She has also spoken about caregiving at Houston Methodist Hospital. She lives in Houston.

Trained in literature and entrepreneurship, Rainey is the founder of Glasstire, the online magazine of visual art in Texas and the oldest online-only art magazine in the country. In 2019, she stepped down as publisher after over 18 years at the helm.

She is currently editing a book about the Rice Gallery and writing for magazines.

Rainey has spoken or written about arts journalism at Emory University, the USC Annenberg School, the El Paso Museum of Art, the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth, College Arts Association, the National Endowment for the Arts, and other places. She has also spoken about caregiving at Houston Methodist Hospital. She lives in Houston.

Rainey Knudson

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Rainey Knudson

Nov 27, 20201 min read

The Neuron Fire (263 words)

We always gather in the darkness whenever it’s time for the Great Fire. The space is black and vast, but somewhere high above us, we sense that we are bounded by a heaven, some dome, that stands between us and infinity.

At first it is inaudible and invisible, just a sense of something happening, but slowly and inexorably, a giant, clear pipe coming down from high above materializes in the darkness. There is a faint glow from within its uppermost reaches. That light starts dim and distant, but it grows steadily brighter as it barrels down towards us, until it is burning and thundering like a comet, the white all-color of lightning speeding blindingly down the transparent pipe.

And then we see the abrupt turn at the bottom of the pipe, how it bends and opens like a lily. The white light crashes towards this bend and makes its spectacular, neat turn, as always, following the bend in the pipe, shooting out of the flower-mouth and passing over our heads with a roar. Off the comet goes, straight into the darkness. We watch it recede away from us over a long distance, seemingly into nothingness, when suddenly, far off, another flower opening appears, another clear pipe whose outline is faintly illuminated by our now-distant comet, catching its fire, and sending it straight up the far-off pipe back towards the heavens. We always stay, hushed, and watch the comet’s ascent until it is no more than a tiny star, then fades completely. And once again, we are surrounded by the calm and bountiful darkness.

© Rainey Knudson 2020.

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