Fireflies existed in the air everywhere, during the summer night. It was simply a matter of not being able to walk without their gently pulsing yellow lights flanking one's movement through the light and shadows of our neighborhood. I had a secret rule about the fireflies that no one was allowed to know, and that no one would've cared about had they ever found out.

I could catch them, but I could never stray from the path.

So I would walk down the sidewalk. Stride, step, stride, step, stride, step, loping along faster than anybody. Sometimes in the night I would see a girl or two or three walking toward me, and I'd always give them my patented wink. Wink! Most of the time they would pretend to not have seen it, but more than you might think, I could fool a smile onto an oncoming manifestation of sweetness and summer lust dreams. Nice.

This, I think, was a tiny declaration of my dedication to The Light. But it's quite possible I'm being simple-minded and conceited. Wouldn't be the first time.

Walking home, I would stretch out my arm, and try to snag fireflies out from above the path. Sometimes they would come like they wanted to be on my dextrous fingers, but then leave right away. Other times only a nimble cup-like motion could catch a beetle, but they would stay for blocks and blocks. I took a firefly home once and let it loose near the big hedge in the yard, and I think he was happy.

I know it was a he; the males in the world of fireflies stay aloft while the females hide in the grass. The males are exposed, females concealed, and I guess one can only consider that sensible, based on whatever used to pass for a natural order in the universe.

Walking home, I would pass the Christian college and walk along the sidewalk that was so far from its front door. Hundreds of feet of Christian lawn seperated the unrighteous non-believers on the sidewalk from the intense concentration of pent-up nuns and consistently frustrated students within.I guess Jesus was probably spread out into the lawn itself, since it seems like the Christian types enjoy seeing Jesus get mixed up in just about everything. I think that if I were the spiritual manifestation of Christ on Earth, I would get very tired of being invoked, and would start saying funny things at Mass to get people to think more.

"Hey, you darn Catholics! You can all stop feeling guilty now, and just have sex with whoever you like, for whatever reason comes immediately to mind! Don't worry. It's okay... I'm Jesus Christ!"

Then I'd give everybody a big TV smile and a big "okay" sign and slowly vanish back to Heaven, leaving behind only a diaphonous shroud. The front would have my image burned into it, while the back would feature a "San Francisco 49ers" logo. This would help get people really involved in sports, I think.

Not enough people really think about things, I think. I think that was a lot of the trouble, I think. I think I should talk about the fireflies again, and let the story tell itself without me rat-tailing it back upon itself and spoiling everything.

Fireflies don't bite, and they don't sting, and they don't do anything but mate and glow in the dusk and night. Sometimes when I would be listening to the right music on the walkman, I would know that the fireflies weren't beetles. No. Soul lanterns would be a much more apt description, I think.

Be the Light.

A lot of times I would touch a soul lantern, and think about who might be within it, touching me back. It's funny how everyone who dreams about having lived before knows that they lived in ancient Egypt, or Greece, or Revolutionary France or something well-documented and romantic like that. I was an ancient Inuit, and I think sometimes that the soul lanterns are my sled dogs, saying hello again, guiding me again.

And walking home I would hear the hiss of water jets, the hiss of people making sure that their great Midwestern American patches of Jesus stayed tru-green and enviable. I would pretend that the fountains were really fields of snakes writhing around on the spread-out irritated embodiment of Christ Our Lord Arisen, and that the snakes would spit venom on me and kill me if I came close. This was never very scary, but always interesting to contemplate.

Perhaps you're wondering at this point whether or not I've been of the habit of ingesting controlled substances? Yes? Well, the answer is no. Never.

I don't need to use drugs. My life, as nearly as I can tell, is a non-ending hallucination. When I want to, I can make my hands throw wheels of blue fire into the night sky. I can turn trees to into metal. I can do just about anything a good hallucination might do, with less side effects, at anytime I want to, and I think this is part of my appeal.

I've always had a hell of a lot of appeal, and while this is one of the things that has made me most want to be bent, it has been one of my strongest weapons. At times, I can make the right people love me, and this has been often invaluable. Occaisionally bad, occaisionally stupid, but mostly invaluable. Love, in all its obnoxious gradiants and forms, is a weapon, and anyone who says otherwise needs to take a week off and let the marijuana get out of their system.

You'll have to pardon my arrogance. It's unforgivable.

I will begin my story at a certain point in time. The point I've selected has been chosen because it's the last traumatic event in my life before the onset of the Story At Large, and because it's fairly easy to remember in detail.

This is much unlike many events that have taken place since. Since the onset of my life's great drama, the clarity of my understanding for life seems to have eroded at the same rate the events within this life have gained in importance and overall dramatic effect.

The girl's name was Melanie, and we met through a mutual friend. She had flown into town to visit her grandparents, and had decided to spend her one free evening with me. I cooked her a meal at my house, and we soon became enamored of each other, as we were both superficially attractive people. It soon became obvious that we were destined, beautifully destined, to run into my bedroom and rip each other's clothes off.

This happened about five minutes after dessert, and it was only after this had happened that I started to have a change of heart. I eased up. I started to talk. I started exploring my inner fears and desires. I started completely losing my nerve and feeling like an idiot.

"Uhm, Melanie. Listen, is there anything I can do for you? You know...drinks, or something? Perhaps a back massage?" Suddenly, my nakedness felt silly. She didn't really like the tack I was taking, however.

"Sex," she growled, while biting my neck. "Now," she said, waxing eloquently on as she licked my face.

I adopted a very stern attitude. "No, listen. You don't quite understand," I said, chuckling in a failed attempt to be patronizing. "I'm not interested in having sex with you. That's not why I've brought you here. You see... Uhm. Well. Right." There was a pause.

She looked at me.

"Allright, it might've been the original intent, but I'm starting to have second thoughts. I mean, what do you think about this?"

Melanie gave me the sort of look that women generally give me when I'm acting like a ninny. "Saul, ask yourself what you'd like to do right now."

I did. I came to a conclusion.

She wrapped her arms around me. "Fine. Now, do that."

I did. A lot.

So you see, the bit about the blonde at the very beginning of all this was, somewhat regrettably, true. My eventual True Love cannot particularly smile upon my weakness in this case, but I take heart in knowing that, at the very least, the average guy on the street is probably with me. What could I really do? She was naked.

Women are persuasive enough with clothes on, thank you oh so very much. One can resist nobly for only so long.

And in the morning, after the last of the night's glorious indignities had begun to fade into memory, my battered ego yielded further ground still to my still triumphantly glowing id.

To help make the following internal dialogue between sections of my mind more clear, I have helpfully named the various Freudian bits of myself that are at work. In the short play that follows, my Ego is portrayed by Julien, a tightly wound and bookish young man with spectacles. My Superego is the Honorable Reverend Opie Goldworth, a man of the cloth who has been beaten to a sad moral pulp by his slowly-deteriorating battle against alcoholism and golf.

Finally, my Id is represented by Angus MacBride, a very vigorous 15th century Scottish warrior complete with claymore and kilt.

Julien (slumped, defeated): I have attempted to moderate a genuine understanding between yourself and Rev. Goldworth, Angus. You have crushed us both.

Angus: Aye, that I 'ave. I 'ave crushed yoo both. And in celebration of this fact...I DEMAND PANCAKES! WE MUST EAT PANCAKES IMMEDIATELY! WITH REAL WHIPPED CREAM! And wee berries on top.

Julien: Pancakes are a luxury item! We can't afford them!

Rev. Goldworth (feebly): Pancakes should be saved as a morning reward for a night of studying or moral crusading...not as a reinforcement and encouragement for...you know. Fornication.

Angus: Now be quiet, the lot of yoo. We will take the woman with us, and get six delicious American pancakes. Now. Or I will be forced to make us persuade this delicious young lass to remove her hastily prepared items of clothing, and once again give us the benefits of her womanly charms.

Julien: Pancakes it is, you evil tyrant.

Angus: Mmm.

And so the five of us went out for pancakes. Terrific. A couple days later, when I came to my senses again, I made the decision that it was time to turn all my assets into liquid cash, borrow a further $50,000 from my always-indifferent but ever-plaible parents, and set out into the world.

Time to run away. Time to run towards.

Whatever.