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Pyrophilia

I should have known more strangeness was coming.
Having just written yesterday about the various unusual things which happened in the world this weekend, as well as in my own one-man universe, I should have known there was more to come.
But at least this was GOOD strangeness, much like the rest of it which I know so well and love. As far as I can love, anyway.
As a young child I grew to love the red tongued flame. The single discovery, aside from maybe the wheel, which helped mankind rise from the menagerie to become the ruler and destroyer of this world. Harnessed properly, fire increases comfort, warming us in winter, cooking our food, warding off predators, attracting hordes of soon to be dead moths. Of course, like Pac Man, fire can also be deadly, not like a murderer or some other conscious element of destruction, but as a force of nature which knows only how to consume fuel, or power pellets.
Did I ever mention Pac Man was one of my heroes?
My earliest and most poignant memory of the power of fire involves my mother, 137 spent matches, and an unclean stove top. As was her wont, mom would turn on the gas and light a match in order to bring one of her four burners to ruinous life. This time, however, the entire stove top took to flame. Thinking quickly, she dashed a whole can of salt onto the would-be inferno, squelching the demon fire and quite possibly saving our humble abode. I may have been five years old at the time, but even then, I knew that fire was not only to be loved for its virtues, but respected as a deadly enemy.
Fire was always around, lighting cigarettes, scorching charcoal, ready to lend its services to the sometimes master who is man, or woman. It enthralled me. Was it a primordial urge deep within my soul to destroy and consume all I surveyed which resonated so strongly with the sight of flame? Maybe. Was it a repressed memory of bitter cold which led me to seek sanctuary in the company of fire? Possibly, although it would have to be a very repressed memory since I love too the bitter cold.
I'm not sure, really.
From the time I could strike a match successfully (around age 10, when I'd fold one end over the head of the match and squeeze the firestick through the striking pad), at least for a little while, I was a firebug. During my biweekly trips to Glen Burnie where my mother lived with my toddler sister (all of three years old), I'd raid the various convenience stores for loose matchbooks. Sometimes a friend would join me (his name was Josh). We'd slink furtively through the store, Josh running misdirection, myself seizing any opportunity to snag a dozen matchbooks, like aspiring shoplifters in search of our first heist. As soon as I, and it was always I, grabbed a handful of matchbooks, we'd leave for the sanctuary of a nearby strip of woodland, stripped bare by winter's chill, and promptly starting setting the matches ablaze, one by one. Occasionally, in our preteen daring, we'd light a whole book of them and watch it burn, enthralled as only little boys intent on destruction can ever be.
I remember a Christmas Eve, 1987, when we'd brought and unusually large number of matches into the woods for our biweekly ritual of make-believe arson. Only this time, through a sudden breeze and carelessness, all of maybe two dozen matchbooks caught flame. We were geeked!!!
Rather than attempt the put out the miniature four alarm blaze, being the only true psychopath present, I began to fling dry branches, leaves, litter, more branches, more litter upon the fire, which had now grown into a respectable little bonfire, reduced in scope to fit its two young creators. We warmed our hands against the fire, since it was rather blustery, though dry, until it singed us once, maybe twice, and yet it grew.
My friend began to feel concerned, thinking perhaps we'd unleashed too great a wrath upon the oh-so nearby community. He cried and ran home to mother, leaving me with our flickering, coalescing child like a deadbeat dad. So here I was, alone, with my old silent friend, infernal fire. I warmed my hands a little more, and then came to my senses.
I was in the middle of a small stretch of bare trees, open to discovery at any moment and liable to take the fall for nearly ruining everyone's Christmas morning. Two options were before me: put out the fire, or run like hell. Being, at heart, a responsible, if mildly destructive young child, I did what any other self-respecting boy would do:
I put out the fire with the only liquid I had at my disposal, marking my territory with scorched earth and a faint stench.
Walking back to mom's house, only after making sure that the child I'd just spawned was well and truly gone, I waxed with boyish triumph, although I'd catch hell itself if the details of my exploits were declassified. But they weren't, and life remained unchanged, if not always good, then at least not any worse.
This did not happen yesterday, to me, anyway. But it was brought to mind by a friend, if friend I can call you, certainly a friendly person I'd only seen in passing long before, who talked to me of playing with fire. Well, that's my tale. I will only say, lest I offend anyone out there reading these inane words, that I had a wonderful evening. Certainly the first, maybe the last of its kind with that particular person, should you wish to have it so. I was enthralled that night, too, but with a different sort of warmth, no less potentially destructive, or potentially soothing. There was allurement and temptation which brought my love of fire quick to mind, long to linger, slow to take its leave.
So thank you, from the bottom of my heart and the depths of my soul.