Burning man

By Bill Pearse on April 20, 2025 • ( 0 )

Though it was early morning and a strange time to do it I lit a fire in the firepit with last night’s coals and the logs that were charred and dampened by the early morning rain. It could be hard getting it going when everything was wet. These were messy, smoky fires. But it reminded me of being in the wilderness when it was quiet and just you and the sound of birds or some stream, the fire’s crackle and pops. And the smoky quality of the wet wood and resinous pine needles was like sweet cannabis or hoppy beer; it transported me. You could scavenge for wood throughout our yard and find slabs of bark that had flaked off or clots of moss, browned leaves. Everything got tossed into the pot. I sat crouched by it like a native with my crotch opened. I would just go around the yard collecting wood and burning it as yard waste the way they often do in Oregon, white trash style. There was no end to the wood and detritus I could burn. The flames made a soft purring sound and lathered me in smoke. It was a white-hot fire, the flames see-through, the coals a rhythmic cartoon orange. You could pick at it to optimize the burn, get down on your side and blow like a native. All the patterns symmetrical, mandala-like. Just me and the birds and flames. No lawnmowers or leaf blowers, no cars. This is what it was like when I used to get stoned and go super singular on some sensory moment in a trance. Like picking at a scab or dried glue. Cleaning. I could just stay in that moment and find some peace.

I circled the yard scanning for wood, leaves, pine needles, anything to burn. Little birds pecking at the sports court, the odd way they bobbed, mini dinosaurs with stilted arms and crooked necks angling their heads sideways. The smell of the pollen a sweet, intoxicating brew. Made my eyes burn and head ache. Like cheap Mexican grass from the 80s, more stems and seeds than weed. The grass was the green of idealized Ireland and the moss too. The moss had so much character you could imagine little red nodules and antennae, micro-worlds of moss culture and possibly even some moss in-fighting. When the moss burned it turned a deep turmeric. The lawn was like a scene from the cover of a Led Zeppelin album or maybe Yes. It was the psychedelic perfection of a new, old decade, a throwback to medieval times, Tolkien. The colors were electric. The stillness surreal. The lawn sloped in sensuous curves like a woman’s hips. The small peeps and caws an odd soundtrack. The underlying purr of the fire its own mantra. I kept circling the lawn looking for wood. There was no end to it! I could do this all day, circling and burning. I’d burn it all down until there was nothing left but white ash. The me dissolved in a wisp of smoke.