The asphalt underfoot was ancient and adolescent, delicately cracked in long spindles popping open to bushy plumes of weeds. It was my own private ruin. Climbing up the open-air stairs of the service building I was on the middle tier. The three-story B and C buildings stretched up, adobe prisons whose new bars suited the faded exterior too well.

Between them is an open space with a narrow path of concrete, surrounded by grass and square planter slabs. Bushes smear the sides, the yew trees tall with lush canopies. There is peace there, even at night, my first night there. It was there that I saw countless games of Magic played, myself lurking in the shadowed corners for goth talk or across the lawn with the naively jaded intelligentsia. Neither one understood why I would frequent the other group; some things never change. When I wasn't there I would play spy, eyeing whoever was hall bitch that day and passing through the doors like smoke, lynxing up with mountain goat accuracy to the final 3rd floor to hide against some nook garrot. Silence in those days was a treasure worth punishment.

I was still afraid there was security around, but gradually my mind dulled and accepted this unexpected present. Turning to the left of C building I climbed more stairs to the third and final tier, the central green and the vending machine plaza stretched out before C castle courtyard. Stumbling across the way I retrieved a sprite and watched the city skylights, arms perched on a low lying wall while the atmosphere breathed golden wreathes of fog and lavender.

In the concrete-bordered field I came across two skunks. Raising their tails I pissed off back down to the second tier, wending my way along a familiar muddy path that was always more fun than the stairs. The bungalows had new murals on them. It had a Grecian or Etruscan feel, the way the images hinted at the life I knew existed but seemed long dead by the porous weepings of the asphalt undertoe.

Finally I made my way to the stadium, surprised that the gates were unlocked. No virginal ruin did I have this night. I sat in the stands and remembered the idiotic perennial pep march. Of all the people with school spirit here I was, pouring out my libations in sprite and sarcasm, the one troubled child that comes back to you in old age. "ECR, may you torture generations of kids to come," I smiled. I wanted to steal a chair but college was behind me now. I walked away no longer feeling angry at my family or myself. Like any good mistress the school had given its silent contribution toward my happiness and state of mind.

In all I think I'm getting over reality by indulging in nostalgia...that and I've received a few written boots to the arse.

Heh, maybe I'll tell you about that sometime soon, too.

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