Snacks: check! Beer: check! Flashlights: check! Wood: check! Two moving boxes full of paper: check! This is no ordinary bonfire; tonight a chunk of our pasts shall burn to ashes.
A true pack rat, I would conscientiously hold on to all sorts of papers: bank statements, sports club bills, medical statements, frequent flier documents, HOA meeting notes, receipts, warranty cards, paystubs, expense reports, the list goes on and on. After the end of each year I would take a guilty pleasure in going through the stash of accumulated papers, sorting them, putting them in folders and filing them away in an archive box. I would then affix it with a subtle label like “Cedric 2009”. Archiving was such serious business that I had to buy an office-grade labeling machine. The day I brought it home, carried away by my enthusiasm, I printed professional-looking labels for each drawer in the house, for the trash containers (“recycling”, “compost”, “landfill”) and even for the dog food bucket (we’ve never inadvertently eaten the pooches’ kibble but one is never careful enough). Each archive box, once labeled, would join its friends on a shelf inside a closet and add a few pounds to the ever-growing weight of my history on this planet.
Offshore wind gushes and sweeps the sand on Ocean Beach. We forgot to bring lighter fluid. We have no screen to protect the nascent fire from the gusty wind that instantly puts it off. Like three rookies, Mai, Lee and I take turns trying to cuddle a spark long enough to get this bonfire started. Fortunately I married a Fire Dragon, and Mai’s astrological sign comes with a touch of magic: her sheer willpower feeds the sparks, turns them into a fire and nurtures it until our written past is engulfed in flames.
These burning archives make for a hypnotizing show. Each paper holds an invisible leash tying me to the past, to who I once was or what I once did. I can almost hear them screaming “Noooooooo” as they combust in an orange glow before fading to black. With each paper turning to ashes the sense of space and freedom grows in me.
Embers are flying away, spreading fragments of our past over the beach, rushing towards the forest that lies across the street. I imagine tomorrow’s news headlines: “Arsons set Golden Gate Park on fire and sign crime with half-burned business cards.” A silhouette in a uniform emerges from the thick darkness. The park ranger stands in front of us, his face expressionless. “This fire is not acceptable. First, it is not in a fire pit. Second, it is forbidden to burn phone books. Put it off right now! I could fine you for all this.” I open my mouth to clarify that these are not phone books but instead I choose a more prudent reply: “Yes, sir.” We begin throwing sand onto the fire, which immediately causes the ranger to snap: “Sand is not acceptable. You must use water.” We only have one tiny near-empty water bottle and a few beer cans, so Lee asks: “Where is the nearest place to get water?” The man points his arm towards the Pacific Ocean. Water and air temperature: 55 degrees. Although his face remains straight I know the park ranger is grinning inside.
The fire is extinguished. Half carbonized, half melted in salt water, the remains of the paper stack await dawn and the San Francisco garbage collection service. My feet are bare and freezing; my pants are drenched and salty; the wind is howling in the dark of night. While tying my shoelaces I take a deep breath in and enjoy the space within.
The past is dead; it always was; life only exists in the present. I just needed a fire to cleanse my soul and remind me that I must let go.
Cedric, 8/25/2012
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