46. STALKING FIRE, ASH AND BRIMSTONE
            

                                             Buckminster Fuller Biosphere, Montréal-Expo fire, 1976
     We entertained a fetish for burnt buildings - a malignant form of junkie fever. Of course, we'd never wish, or relish, anyone's harm, but we were under a strange spell (pyrotechnically, "hell"). At the first sounds of a siren or fire alarm, we'd drop whatever-the-nothing-we-were-doing to chase the wailing to its source....to find an apartment, house, building, or entire city block ablaze. Free central heating! Fireworks! A glowing orange, back-lit haze preceded explosions of licking flames. Dark, billowing smoke clouds took on sinister elemental forms. Giant fountain sprays careened from fire hydrants, snaky firehoses writhed erect with pummeling water pressure.

     We were captivated by the village heroes, in black and yellow florescent slickers, wearing clown-size black boots and pirate hats, moot faces streaked black as they courageously battled the inferno and rescued its terrified victims. Hypnotic lights strobed garishly over the stunned folks, standing bereft, holding family relics or pets forlornly, crying softly into their bathrobe sleeves (ever so sad). Epic tragedies like these temporarily redeemed our pathetic junkie lives.

                                                                   Montréal Parliament Building fire, 1849
     This was as much flash and fury as, well, weeks worth of rotting in caves. Our cultish attendance must have seemed suspicious, but a) we weren't the only people addicted to fire, and b) we always applauded when the fire was put out (although the odd industrial factory burned for days). Leave it to a stylin' old city like Montréal (Est. 1626) to nightly shed its tubercular skin. An antagonistic populace erupts in conflagrations, incinerating their squalid lives in tinderboxes! Firebugs! Pyromaniacs! What many a slumlord would do to collect insurance.....Bonfires of immaculate immolation, fiery portals to the Earth core. A tragic drama, the incontrovertible horror granted by a struck match. Daunting! Savage! Alchemical!

     Our fetish climaxed the day after the Main Event. We were irresistibly drawn to the smell of the charred remains. Clandestinely ducking under the hazard (INTERDIT) tape, we side-stepped puzzle-piece-shaped holes in the floorboards, taking in the indescribably pungent aroma of the soggy, unidentifiable, decomposed goop we found surreal beyond Dada. The gothic beauty of a singed book, burnt around the edges, creepy classics we'd read aloud, savoring the random coincidence of whatever text was spared. Poems for ghosts in smoking jackets, flying askance. Skeletal arch-i-texture, exposed rafters and balconies,  black as crow's feathers. Charcoal clean, beatifically twisted, hallowed reductions in seared crispness, a CRISP reality. We imagined ourselves the sort of Beings who'd thrive in such a state. Burnt shadows. Pure ember-blackened wings, fallen from grace - gone to soar in other dimensions.

 p.s who knew? apparently, charred-wood finish-ed furniture and charred-wood wall panels are the latest rage in interior design?!!!