Bound to Crumble

I can hear the water running down the pipes in this old basement. It's kind of gross if you think about it long enough. That very same water used to me Viking sweat or dinosaur urine. Yuck.

I feel like I have had a lot to write about during the past few days but I have put off writing about it so long that the initial inspiration has long since worn off and I find myself struggling to write about anything at all. Serves me write. When you get an inkling to write you should NEVER suppress it. Starting now I will always have a pen on me and a little notebook.

I went to my old high school's dance company concert this week. Every time I go back to my high school I remind myself that it might just be the last time I see that building. They are set to tear it down in the next few months.

A part of me feels victimized by this: sad that my future children and grandchildren will never walk Cross Hall or see Ms. Bestor's room. All my stories about chickens in the skybrary or Mr. Downs chasing after kids who try to ride his iron rhinoceros named Rusty will never have a foundation. The building will melt away and over time my stories will lose flavor, leaving just the amorphous outline of a life long past. It's kind of funny how high school is such a defining time. I only spent three years of my life in that building but those were three years of a significant caliber.

There is another part of me that is content to see the building crumble. I have come a long way since high school but when I spend time with my high school friends I find myself regressing. Perhaps with the building gone I will be able to officially close that novel of my life, pack my bags and move east, and begin the next volume on new page. Yes, a new page. A page so virgin and untouched that I have to write my own page numbers and publication information. I wonder how trapped I really am by my past and how much of it I just make out in my mind.

The dancers did a find job. By no means was it "So You Think You Can Dance" but this group of people has learned to use the God-given body in a way I never mastered. They prance and leap and jump and shimmy and at times they seem to challenge gravity to a duel. There was one girl on stage who used to be good friends with my younger sister. We'll call her Annie. Annie used to come over to my house every day to play with my sister. She would accidentally leave jackets and barrettes and toys around our house and we would gather all Annie's belongings and put them in a pile for her to pick up when she next visited on the morrow. That was the Young Annie: pig tails, forgetful, and energetic. Now, on a stage illuminated with vibrant reds and soft blues and adorned in dancer shorts and a long flannel shirt, Annie is flexible and graceful and slender and skillful. She folds easily into the man's arms and he then lifts her into the air. She spins in the air on the release and, like a cat, softly lands on her feet ready for the next leap.

I look at this woman and remember how I used to babysit her. Now in her presence I feel old and fat and ugly. It is a harsh realization that one day I too will crumble like Orem High.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One of the songs the team danced to was this medley. I like it. I wouldn't have ever figured out that combination.