Ruminations and thoughts
This may go long and strange, so you've been warned.
My hair smells like smoke and my jeans are full of sand.
I prepared carefully to go for the burn. I brought warm clothes, two packs of matches, a blanket, wine and cakes, my own wood, and an ipod full of Tom Waits. When I finally got to the ocean, I couldn't find the right beach. I had in mind a somewhat isolated beach, off of Highway 1, where I could burn my things in peace. But every beach seemed wrong; too much in town, closing at sunset, something.
Out of town, I finally found the beaches I was looking for, and one after another was marked "No dogs, no camping, no fires."
I drove in, saw the signs, drove out. I had been to a beach burn once, but couldn't remember where.
At the third beach, which was almost deserted, I decided to take a chance. My literal legalism had always been a bone of contention between monstro and I--somehow, breaking the rules seemed like the right way to end it.
I did it in my way, of course, hiking out from the parking lot, concealing my fire between driftwood structures created by other beach-goers. I watched, paranoid, for a long time, afraid I would be discovered, finally practicing my sweet and innocent act in my head until I felt confident that I could get away with it if pressed and could relax.
The fire was a lot like the end of my marriage, really.
I tried to conceal it from the outside world as best as I could, at first.
I used my hands to dig out a pit in the sand so that everything could be safely destroyed. It was my safety net. Looking back, I always had a safety net with monstro. I always made sure I would be just fine, financially and emotionally, without him. I accepted the consequences of our relationship ending when it had barely begun. I wanted to be safe.
I threw pieces of our life into the fire. The books he thrust at me, thinking that because I liked some books I must like all, the doll from Oaxaca that was all the child I'd ever give him, despite his pressure, the pages and pages of letters I wrote while we were separated, the divorce paperwork I finished for myself--and for him, the photos of him drunk and stoned, the drug-induced art, the shirt he sent me while I was in Maine, the one thing I actually wore.
The fire wouldn't seem to start. I threw in match after match, lit this corner or that, but the whole thing wouldn't get started. I suppose I knew that he I were done long before it was over, but I had to wait, had to watch it burn, to a certain extent, make sure I was doing the right thing.
Finally something caught and the fire started, a bit, a few flames here and there, still easily concealed. I had almost decided not to throw anything else onto the fire but decided that the shirt had to go, and the fire exploded into a real flame for the first time, eating away at the cloth; it was no longer possible to conceal the fire, and I didn't really care.
The fire was fascinating for awhile; I watched it eat away at different pieces at different speeds, devouring the letters, slowly licking at the doll, attacking the book which I had modified in my moments of greatest anger slowly, from the outside in. Each flame, each moment, seemed filled with the language of fire, of destruction. I remember how I harrangued those around me with the details of the demise of my marriage, until I realized that talking about it was not making me feel better and was probably just boring everyone around me.
Then the flames died stopped and there was only smoke, but the smoke was thicker than it had been when the flames were going, and I was more and more worried about discovery. Two guys were walking up to me, and I was terrified that they were going to bust me but they just said, "Looks nice." I was so afraid of how people would just me divorce; I still am, in a way, as I meet new people. It's weird to be a divorcee, but it's hard to avoid, being as how some of who I am and so many of my experiences hapened with him. But no one else, I think, has ever judged me as harshly as I judge my self.
And then, finally, it just got boring. It was smoldering and smoldering. I had promised myself I'd wait til it stopped smoking. But it wouldn't stop. I pulled the twisted skeleton of the shirt out, because I knew the zipper would degrade, and poked at it, fascinated by the burnt but still formed fabric; only the framework was left, somehow not consumed by the flame. I had determined to take with me anything else substantial, to throw away and not clutter the beach, but I poked and prodded and everything went to ashes under my stick. It was done. There was nothing left. I finally covered it over with sand and walked back along the ocean, changing the music. It happened on the Toad the Wet Sprocket song. "I wasn't looking for heaven or hell, just someone to listen to the stories I tell." I just smiled, because one thing I know I have is someone to listen to the stories and tell. And notice. And remember.
It's over. I dumped what was left unceremoniously into the trashcan, got back into the car, and pulled out the first CD that came to my hand--"Into the Woods." El ministro and I bonded over this, oh so many eons ago. It was the right thing to go home to. The future.
My hair smells like smoke and my jeans are full of sand.
I prepared carefully to go for the burn. I brought warm clothes, two packs of matches, a blanket, wine and cakes, my own wood, and an ipod full of Tom Waits. When I finally got to the ocean, I couldn't find the right beach. I had in mind a somewhat isolated beach, off of Highway 1, where I could burn my things in peace. But every beach seemed wrong; too much in town, closing at sunset, something.
Out of town, I finally found the beaches I was looking for, and one after another was marked "No dogs, no camping, no fires."
I drove in, saw the signs, drove out. I had been to a beach burn once, but couldn't remember where.
At the third beach, which was almost deserted, I decided to take a chance. My literal legalism had always been a bone of contention between monstro and I--somehow, breaking the rules seemed like the right way to end it.
I did it in my way, of course, hiking out from the parking lot, concealing my fire between driftwood structures created by other beach-goers. I watched, paranoid, for a long time, afraid I would be discovered, finally practicing my sweet and innocent act in my head until I felt confident that I could get away with it if pressed and could relax.
The fire was a lot like the end of my marriage, really.
I tried to conceal it from the outside world as best as I could, at first.
I used my hands to dig out a pit in the sand so that everything could be safely destroyed. It was my safety net. Looking back, I always had a safety net with monstro. I always made sure I would be just fine, financially and emotionally, without him. I accepted the consequences of our relationship ending when it had barely begun. I wanted to be safe.
I threw pieces of our life into the fire. The books he thrust at me, thinking that because I liked some books I must like all, the doll from Oaxaca that was all the child I'd ever give him, despite his pressure, the pages and pages of letters I wrote while we were separated, the divorce paperwork I finished for myself--and for him, the photos of him drunk and stoned, the drug-induced art, the shirt he sent me while I was in Maine, the one thing I actually wore.
The fire wouldn't seem to start. I threw in match after match, lit this corner or that, but the whole thing wouldn't get started. I suppose I knew that he I were done long before it was over, but I had to wait, had to watch it burn, to a certain extent, make sure I was doing the right thing.
Finally something caught and the fire started, a bit, a few flames here and there, still easily concealed. I had almost decided not to throw anything else onto the fire but decided that the shirt had to go, and the fire exploded into a real flame for the first time, eating away at the cloth; it was no longer possible to conceal the fire, and I didn't really care.
The fire was fascinating for awhile; I watched it eat away at different pieces at different speeds, devouring the letters, slowly licking at the doll, attacking the book which I had modified in my moments of greatest anger slowly, from the outside in. Each flame, each moment, seemed filled with the language of fire, of destruction. I remember how I harrangued those around me with the details of the demise of my marriage, until I realized that talking about it was not making me feel better and was probably just boring everyone around me.
Then the flames died stopped and there was only smoke, but the smoke was thicker than it had been when the flames were going, and I was more and more worried about discovery. Two guys were walking up to me, and I was terrified that they were going to bust me but they just said, "Looks nice." I was so afraid of how people would just me divorce; I still am, in a way, as I meet new people. It's weird to be a divorcee, but it's hard to avoid, being as how some of who I am and so many of my experiences hapened with him. But no one else, I think, has ever judged me as harshly as I judge my self.
And then, finally, it just got boring. It was smoldering and smoldering. I had promised myself I'd wait til it stopped smoking. But it wouldn't stop. I pulled the twisted skeleton of the shirt out, because I knew the zipper would degrade, and poked at it, fascinated by the burnt but still formed fabric; only the framework was left, somehow not consumed by the flame. I had determined to take with me anything else substantial, to throw away and not clutter the beach, but I poked and prodded and everything went to ashes under my stick. It was done. There was nothing left. I finally covered it over with sand and walked back along the ocean, changing the music. It happened on the Toad the Wet Sprocket song. "I wasn't looking for heaven or hell, just someone to listen to the stories I tell." I just smiled, because one thing I know I have is someone to listen to the stories and tell. And notice. And remember.
It's over. I dumped what was left unceremoniously into the trashcan, got back into the car, and pulled out the first CD that came to my hand--"Into the Woods." El ministro and I bonded over this, oh so many eons ago. It was the right thing to go home to. The future.