Leaving Los Gatos

A place in your heart that will always be there.
A place like home, but will never compare to the new that is now.
How to go back, just what to do.
A time of dreams in that little glass house.
A time to be sheltered from happiness all around.
Not just a being, but a feeling of calm.
Calamity surrounds, but can't break the glass
the glass that holds you in,
astounds you in it's ability...
to make the outside look so new
maybe the glass is made of rose colored glasses,
BUT,
then why does looking back tinge it with blue,
a sadness, a lack of hope, for ever going back.

dated: 4 months after leaving Los Gatos

From the top of the street, looking down on the rest of Los Gatos, one could see the fog creeping low over downtown.

It watched us take a vague, silent leave--the gesture strikingly similar in texture and memory to what I was leaving behind the low bridge--smooth, crisp fog--lush, minty pine--all bound and intertwined within itself.

Leaving, I witnessed the senses, sounds and smells exhume and drift behind the foothills as I drove to the right of (never quite losing sight of) the sun--leaving terse and tart details behind in the mist (which was starting to fade with the rising sun).

The concrete (bright and bold) present gives way to the abstract (dusky and delicate) past as I drive once again towards those soft, gently-swaying hills.

--Spring Break freshman year

I'm driving in my convertible, the top is down because it's a tepid, palatable September evening in Northern California. The convertible is there because it is Los Gatos, and in order to be a seventeen year-old girl and own a brand new convertible, one must live in an affluent, predominantly white suburb. One must also slowly come to live the truth that nothing else exists but this place, and occasionally Santa Cruz 30 minutes South and San Francisco 45 minutes North.

I have lived here forever. I have just said goodbye to two of my best friends. One was mad at me because she always kind of is. The other was mad at me because I had indirectly contributed to her spraining her ankle the night prior to this one, which would ultimately render her unable to go on her Harvard backpacking trip. Both were mad at me because I had shortened my meeting with them to have dinner with The Boy.

I am driving up University Avenue. Tomorrow there will be more avenues for me, grander avenues, avenues preceeded by the words "Fifth" and "Madison". Though, I personally, will become most intimately related with Fourth. Broader streets. Broad Street. Broadway.

Radiohead's "The Bends" is doing heavy damage to my hearing and disrupting the residential street. Suddenly I'm reminded of, of all things, a car commercial. I think it's for Infinity or Acura Integra or something with an I. There's a gritty, confrontational, man's man narrator saying, "Are you ready for something you've always wanted?"

No. Not even close. My flight leaves in six hours and I haven't even packed my bags. Haven't wrapped up the DVD player or the Playstation. Haven't gotten my winter coat out of the basement. Haven't done anything but smoke, write, think about The Boy, and smoke. And that's just the tip of the iceberg with regard to my unreadiness. We're not even beginning to address all the baggage that doesn't get checked at the counter.

I pull over on the periphery of Blossom Hill Park and light another cigarette. I'm not ready to go home because I'm not ready to leave. I'm not ready to see it again because I know that's the last impression that's going to be achingly seared into my mind for months to come. And I don't want to see it right now because I know how much smaller my dorm shall be by comparison.