Sensory Details

Sight:
I'm inspired by Ken Burns' 2009 documentary "National Parks: America's Best Idea." Truly, I am never more proud to be an American than when hearing stories of the early conservationists, idealistic and rugged, that decided to set aside some land (and later, animals) from the wanton destruction of the Industrial Age. It's a beautiful story, told with beautiful images. While it's impossible to capture the magnificence of many of these places with a television screen, Burns makes a good attempt. See the sweeping panoramas of granite and sky in the Yosemite Valley. Behold the early morning stillness at Yellowstone, where the geyser steam melts into the ragged breath of huge bison and it all mixes with morning sunlight. Watch the yellow light gather on faraway pinnacles of the Grand Canyon. I'm seven months away from summer vacation and work has crept into more corners of my life. These heavenly documentary images are good reminders of what's ahead.

Sound:
I've got two CD's in regular rotation in my car each morning: Lil Wayne's "I Am Not a Human Being" and "The Very Best of Violent Femmes." Ostensibly, these two discs span several eras and musical genres. The reality is that Lil Wayne and the Femmes' lead singer and songwriter, Gordon Gano, have a lot in common. Both vocalists are loud, surprising, salacious, and angry. Both experiment with tempo in their songs, either slowing the beat to a crawl or speeding it up at unexpected points. Both slur and holler and spit and cuss. They both waver between honesty and pretense. Importantly, both artists absolutely rock. Every morning, sucking down coffee and blinking through the fogged windshield, I nod my head to violent little beats. After listening to these two, I'm ready for a roomful of teenagers.

Smell:
My sinuses have been screwed up ever since an elbow to the face in a game of water basketball. I can't smell that much. This is good, and bad.

Touch:
Last Saturday I sat under a wet poncho, feeling cold streams of rain slide off my back. If I stood up, the water that had collected in my lap would soak my jeans and boots. I didn't stand up. The team I was watching, the OSU Beaver football team, was losing to the worst team in our conference. There was no reason to explode to my feet and high-five the people behind me, to yell and throw my arms up. Saturday was a symptom of a larger malaise--the horrible reality that 2010 is turning into the worst season in college football history. My Beavers are bad. The hated Ducks are really, really good. Their girlfriend-beating running back might win the Heisman Trophy. They're undefeated. Unless something drastic happens (their coach resigns; Jesus comes back), they'll play for a National Championship. And so, last weekend, I sat in the cold and wet, watching with numb acceptance the sporting world collapse all around me.

Taste:
On Thursdays, La Roca, a taco place on Ninth Street, has "enchiladas verdes" as their daily special. Enchiladas verdes from La Roca are unbelievably good. It's as though Huitzilopochtili, the Aztec sun god, gathered the finest spices and bits of chicken from across the New World, wrapped them in a warm tortilla, and smothered them in cheese and green sauce. The sauce itself is a divine nectar, a rich potion from some ethereal dimension superior to our own. When I eat some enchiladas verdes, especially on a cold afternoon in Corvallis, I give thanks. It doesn't make sense, this ambrosia. We shouldn't be allowed to enter the Garden of Eden, not just by turning down Buchanan and hanging a left on Ninth. To eat enchiladas verdes from La Roca is to know more earthly delights than a man could hope for.

For Brandon

I had Brandon in my freshman lit class, two years ago. He turned in his work and laughed at my jokes. We had our ups and downs, but mostly got along. After he passed the class, I'd run into him in the halls. He'd nod and smirk at me. He was a quiet kid, a good kid.

Brandon killed himself last night. We found out today after A-Block.

I had to read an announcement to my B-Block class. I couldn't really, not word-for-word. The class, a good group of freshmen, were silent for the rest of the period. The whole school was different, as though someone had ripped the life out of the building: we felt gutted. Between classes, the crowded hallways were silent, people passing each other with their eyes down. Teams of counselors from the District Intervention Team set up "care rooms" on both floors. The Gay-Straight Alliance took down their display in the forum and in its place put up a makeshift memorial to Brandon with markers and poster board. My juniors skipped their Advisor class, opting instead to quietly walk around the neighborhoods, returning to school when C-Block started. The JV Soccer Team--Brandon's team--lined up on the field as though it were game day and stood in silence. Little groups of students spilled out of the counseling center, huddled on the floor, hugging their knees and crying softly. To me, those groups were the most arresting image.

My dad killed himself two summers ago. I've also huddled on the floor.

I didn't go to Advisor, either.

After school, I went on a run on that path I like along Walnut Boulevard. It was my longest run yet--I went down to the fairgrounds. It was pretty when the sun went down. The trees and the fields and the hills were all illuminated, in the slanted light, turning proudly to gold.

The Things We Hold Dear

There's a path that makes a big, sweeping turn south-west from my apartment, along Walnut Boulevard in Corvallis. It's pleasantly wide and made of asphalt: perfect for running. I'm thankful to live next to this path, thankful to be able to listen to music and run and watch the hills.

The trail skirts the edge of the Coast Range--I pass open fields, deciduous trees, and Oregon State animal research barns. In the distance, Bald Hill and then Mary's Peak emerge over the treeline, imposing shapes that lift beyond the splotches of yellow and orange and red. Hawks alight on fenceposts; deer vanish in the crepuscular shadows as I trot past. The light shifts and bends along with the clouds on these perfect evenings. "This is all so bucolic," I say to myself. "Bucolic."

Out on that trail, it doesn't matter that I have to finish quarter grades next week. I don't care about the stacks of boxes we still haven't unpacked from our move, last month. I forget, completely, the nagging utility bills and student loans. Best of all, I don't care that the Great Devil (the U of O football team) is ranked # 1 in the nation. On a good, long run, I forget the bad things of this world.

And so I press on. I only get a few miles in right now--still getting my legs back after two months away from running--but I am about to add to my normal route. At the stoplight where I turn around to head back home, the corner of Harrison and Walnut, the trail branches in three directions. In a few weeks, I'll have tried each path. One leads to Bald Hill. One heads to campus. One goes into downtown Corvallis. Right now, my life is filled with as much opportunity and direction as my favorite running trail. Living in Corvallis is opportunistic like that: there's easy access to surfing, mountain biking, indoor climbing, and OSU athletics. In this town, careful seekers can find literature, spirits, friends, religion, community, transcendence, and renewal. All we need to do is lace up our shoes, crank up our iPods to a good track, and head out the door.