burniture

Burniture (v/n) - The act of collecting wrecked wooden furniture off the side of the road and building a bonfire from the scraps. 2) The event during which much alcohol is consumed and much music played while watching furniture burn.



It was a short-lived fad in our little circle, thanks in part to a crumbled love triangle -- the primary burniture aficionados being friends and there being a girl in between, a conflagration to match the bonfire was really inevitable from the get-go -- and in part, well, you know, to the fire department. For some reason, they failed to see the ecological benefits of our little events, absolutely refused to acknowledge the concept of our fire as a valid recycling tool.

Honesty, I shouldn't say "our." I only went to one burning. But the stories trickled out and my favorite involved Suitor A of the triangle standing in the middle of the fire, guitar in hand and singing through the flames. Since I wasn't there, I don't know how he didn't pass out from smoke inhalation. I don't know how he escaped sans singe. But he did. Maybe the alcohol burned off first, protecting skin, hair and clothes. Regardless, I don't wonder if that was the beginning of the end for Suitor B. I mean, who can compete with a fireproof rockstar? You've got to be some kind of hot to withstand that kind of heat. Your inner flame has to burn right-mighty-crazy bright.


Unfortunately, the only one I was able to attend was the one the fire department also attended. The one at which they sternly explained that our measly garden hose was no match for the fourteen foot flames we were in the processs of stoking with dilapidated cabinetry, paint-chipped shutters and abandoned banisters.

We were instructed in no uncertain terms to put it out and much to my deep disappointment, we did. Disappointed because I had something of the non-furniture variety to burn and these helmeted holier-than-thous were snuffing my plan. I wanted cleansing by fire and they had doused my detergent. Dumb ol' slicker-wearing joy-kills.

So what did I want to burn? Suffice it to say there was a relatively brief, but intense and ultimately doomed relationship during which there were many, many, MANY overly emotive, syrup-laden, tooth-achingly sweet emails exchanged due to the long-distance nature of said relationship. And somehow I got custody of them.

(I got custody of them and of the pesky fucking ellipses that came along with writing them. The ellipses, his ridiculous and meaningless writing tick that I caught like a communicable disease during the epistolary portion of our relationship. The ellipses that I can't shake . . . that plagues my writing to this day . . . that I HATE.)


And while the relationship ended forever ago, I'd just never managed to find a way to toss the emails away -- the book of emails, I should say, in thickness to rival the Guggenheim Bible. And with all the emotional investment, I couldn't in good conscience just throw them in the same place I throw egg shells and olive cans. Besides, they would still exist. Somewhere. In a dump. Preserved in plastic. And I would know.

Instead, being the clever girl that I am, I tried to hide them from myself. But that didn't work, because even when I managed to forget where they were -- maybe because I'd forget where they were -- I'd invariably stumble across them like one might a rotted peach at the back of the fridge. It was so lovely once. Now it's just a goo-ified mess. Most people would throw away the rotting peach. I just moved mine around. Like I said, I'm clever that way. I even tried to give it new value by fung shui-ing it behind a bookshelf in the wisdom/knowledge corner of my house. But I always knew it was there. A rotting peach smells like a rotting peach, no matter how smart a peach it is.

And now that I had an opportunity to ditch those missives with appropriate ceremony, come hell or high-water-boot-wearing firemen, I was going to rid myself of that festering lovelorn mojo.
Luckily, we had a chiminea. Sort of hard to stuff an armoire into, but big enough for a few (okay, a lot of) emails. It would do.

Step AWAY from the chiminea, ma'am!
Move SLOWLY and you won't be hurt!
What are you doing with those papers, ma'am?
Ma'am? Ma'am? Why are you crying, ma'am?


Is there anything more humiliating than losing your composure in public? All coughing sobs and tears from some desolate pain OH-THE-PAIN kind of pain place?
"It's just that it's proof you know," I'd choked out, all soupy-faced and gurgle throated, "that someone. . . (fucking ellipses) someone that wasn't related to me by blood or covered in fur or anything, really, actually loved me." [Insert deep, shaky sigh] "At least for a little while."

Sooooooo. Horribly. Pathetic.

But it did the trick. People holstered their firearms and stepped gingerly away from the crazy girl hugging the chiminea, and allowed me to dump my past in peace.

Needless to say, there was something awfully satisfying about finally throwing that BOOK OF EMAILS on the flame and watching the flame consume the BOOK OF EMAILS page by page, charring each into individual oblivion.

And then someone noticed that the BOOK OF EMAILS was actually SMOTHERING the fire. THE BOOK OF EMAILS WAS STRONGER THAN THE FLAME. Oh inthenameofallthat'sholy, this is RIDICULOUS. Can we not be DONE with this?! THIS is why one needs a BONFIRE!

Still, the irony struck and I couldn't help but mutter a rueful, "How appropriate," which sort of broke the tension and made us all laugh.


And as I poked angrily at the BOOK OF EMAILS and blew angry oxygen into the mouth of the chiminea, I couldn't help but mutter a rueful, "How appropriate."

Honestly, it wasn't that funny, but someone laughed anyway and then someone else, and before long we were all in a state of hysterics. It was just one of those moments.

But in that moment that wasn't really all that funny despite the nonsensical laughing, I realized that the pain OH THE PAIN kind of pain that had been roiling on the surface had become no more than the merest breath of a simmer under a great deal of hope. Because as we laughed and I watched the last remnants of that love burn, I couldn't help but think of Suitor A, standing tall in the flames. . . and singing.