A bonfire in effigy of random memories, or moreso a funeral pyre of this stage of life? Is this what this time of year is supposed to mean to me?
Graduation has come and gone, and with it, many of the friends I’ve had have also come and gone, many leaving to do that thing called “building a life” that so many of us forget is something we must do. Stagnation creeps in at the corners, and our building process turns into nothing more than a duldrum-inducing coasting down the road of lives.
I seriously need to find a better analogy to life than a road. It’s far too cliche.
Meanwhile, I’m trapped, caged in by the confines of this town, only to be let out on parole from this prison town for short jaunts in places I think I could call home if given the opportunity.
I speak often about the weariness this town imparts upon me, and yet you may not know why. It’s the very atmosphere, in that this is a college town, one set in a rural environment, away from the bustle of city life, and plopped down into stretches of farmland like so many piles of dung. In a place such as this, two demographics grate on me the most, both of which are rather plethoric, edging out the type of person that I am, which is… I don’t know, what am I? I suppose I’m closer to the kind of person that might live on the coast, liberal-minded and even more liberal-spirited.
There are two demographics here: The first type is the urban cowboy (or even cowgirl), who thinks that a cowboy hat, constricting shit-kicker boots, and tight jeans is something you wear on a formal evening dressed to kill, and that an obnoxiously rumbling diesel pick-up is a vehicular fashion statement. The other demographic is the pre-apocolyptic, post-eighties yuppie college student, the frat rats and sorostitutes of the world, thinking that their Clorox-laden blonde hair is somehow unique and trendy. Neither of these demographics can form a logical syllogism to save their lives. Neither of these demographics have ever read Faust or Sartre, think Marc Antony is a rapper, and believe that Shakespeare’s most notable work was Romeo and Juliet.
We lit the bonfire with papers culled from the past, scribbled snapshots of our time together as friends, and watched the flames consume the more palpable components of our time together, destroyed in so few instants by such a simple, yet effective, force of elemental nature. The fire, uncontrolled, began its hungry ascent towards the wood piled there, the papers only kindling down the path towards the burning of the man.
Once the fire was fully formed, the stark contrast of light and heat on dark night skyline was fully recognizable, and I swear at one point the shape of the flames resembled the outline of a man in reverse stark portrait contrast, light and heat being the only thing that made up its form. The man of flames burned for a while, and then the fuel below shifted, and the impression was lost as new shapes emerged from the pyre.
We chatted, joked, and just generally shot the proverbial and incorporeal breeze. But throughout our inconsequential social interactions, there was always that tinge of memorial declivity that so permeates the scene at every final friendly gathering, the focal point of which was the fire itself. It had become a member in our conversation, its only contributions to the exchange the popping and hissing and dancing of the fire tongues as we continued on with our pointless pointed conversations. But our group was ringed around the fire, acknowledging it as the center of attention and the focal point of each individual, never beyond intellectual reach.
When the bonfire burned down and the burning of the man, no… of the memories… was complete, we doused the fire and our attention was diverted to the destruction of such chaotic order of flame on fuel, the ashes now having reached maximum entropy, blowing in that formless wind as we knew each of us would soon follow, scattering away from each other, our friendships now having taken on the properties of the smoldering man of memories.
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