Walk

Life is like a long walk.

When you start, there are endless possibilities of where you can go, which way to turn, which streets to cross. It's a long road, and you enjoy the experience. You don't want it to end, and when it does, it seems like you just started moments before.

At about midnight, I was bored and it was getting stuffy inside, since the windows have stayed closed the past few days because of all this damn smoke. So, I decided to take a walk.

It was going to be a short one, just a stroll around the block, my iPod and I. It was cold, in the low fifties, so I decided to bring a sweatshirt. The cool air was refreshing though, thick from the NorCal fires, but cool. I started walking.

I went around the block. But something in the way Bob Dylan was singing caused me to accidentally miss the turn to go back to my house on purpose. I figured I'd extend my escapade a few more blocks.

I always liked running because of the mysterious way that it erases your mind of all thought, simply allowing you to focus on how much your lungs feel like they're full of fiberglass and how your legs feel like rubber. Walking, on the other hand, gives you the time and concentration to think about things, about what you did during the day, about who you like, about life. It eases your emotions, loosens your muscles, and kind of lets you relax.

I began to realize all of this as I was finishing up my few extra blocks, and decided to add a few more. I walked all the way to Harvest Park. I sat there in the parking lot, orange light bleeding through the smoke and fog onto the pavement. The empty flag pole pointed starkly into the nothingness. I thought about the three years I spent there, watched the ghost of myself walk from the entrance gates to the bus stop. Those were good years, middle school. Good years.

I got up and continued down Valley, deciding to take a residential detour down Crestline. Detour to where, I have no idea. I didn't have any particular destination in mind, I was just moving, following my feet, which were in turn following the beat of the Moody Blues pouring through my headphones.

I took in the feeling radiated by the quaint little streets that could easily be pulled from the map of any suburban town in America. These evenly spaced little boxes, each with a cute mailbox and identical streetlight, lined up like soldiers. I walked past hundreds of cars, many with "'08 Grad", "Go Seniors," and "pen15," among other things, still scrawled on the windows from two weeks ago. I thought about the owners of those cars, people that I once knew, people I last saw at graduation and may never see again. Every fifteenth or twentieth house had the light on in one of the upstairs bedrooms, presumably another teenager up late watching a movie, texting friends, or getting knocked up by their boyfriend. I can see through walls. I know exactly how life is in these identical houses with identical soccer moms that drive identical SUVs. I live in one of them, I know.

There are only four sounds that can be heard at 1:30 in the morning in Pleasanton on any given day. Sprinklers, the occasional bird chirp, a stray car mumbling by, and the distant, constant drone of the freeways. Indeed, a nice change from the bombardment of noise pollution during the day, produced by the churn of suburban life. I even paused my music for a minute to absorb the soft symphony of the night.

Turning left at Greenwood, I meandered down the artery that carries the brunt of Birdlands kids to Amador and Harvest Park each day during the school year. Tonight it was just another empty summer lane, with the occasional baseball lying on the side, forgotten by the kids as they ran in for dinner. They were all sound asleep now, as I sauntered down the middle of the road, shadow revolving as the street lights surpassed me overhead.

The light was red as I advanced upon Valley. I ignored this, and strolled into the center of the junction, standing casually in the middle of what is usually a heavily used intersection. To the end of Greenwood now, past a group of youth, who scuttled back behind a house. Dancing with Mary Jane. That familiar, potent stench lazily overtook my nose. Stupid kids. Go find a parking lot.

Right on Mohr, left on Tanenger. I lay down in the grassy field behind the old Century House and stared up at the stars, or at least those that still shone through the amber haze of light pollution. The blades of green felt sharp against my back. It began to rain. Damn sprinklers.

Now slightly moist, I carried on out to Santa Rita, the aorta of Pleasanton. No cars, none. Just empty, ginger glow on lifeless pavement.

From there I turned onto Stoneridge. There is a bike lane on that road, with a long white line running down the shoulder to outline it. I walked the line. I followed the arrows down to the very end, where, on the enormous fence, there sits a sign that reads "END." Just in case you did not notice that the road turns into a dirt patch and then a stucco wall.

I turned around, and, seeing that it was close to two in the morning, decided that it was best to start heading home. I didn't feel tired, but my feet were beginning to argue with the relentless walking.

I walked down Dennis, a cold residential alley at the furthest edge of Pleasanton, crammed with tight housing and cobblestone driveways. It was here that I approached Mohr Elementary. This is where I found my place in this town, where I made most of my friends, where I began to develop myself as I am today. It was dark, no single ray of light leaked through the cross-hatched fence surrounding the school. I hopped the fence and walked the halls I once walked ten years ago. Ten years is a decade; a long time in the life of a human being. The echoes of past voices resounded through the empty walls of the campus; I swear I could hear them through the darkness, escaping the boundaries of time through the gateway of my memory. Sounds of children on the playground, children I knew. They are children no longer, nor am I. And I came to the realization that we never will be again.

I continued out over the blacktop and onto the grass, where I used to spend time playing capture the flag in P.E. with Mr. Maz. "Never smoke!" I heard it loud and clear. "Yes, sir!" Replied the P.E. class standing on the basketball court, each student on top of their own colored rubber dot. I still see them. I still hear them.

I walked down the path dividing the two fields, precisely the way I did as I left Mohr on the last day of fifth grade. That was 2001. A lot has changed since then: people have changed, some for better, some for worse. The twin towers fell. We've gone to war. And, most recently, we have all been released from the binds of high school into the real world.

Homeward bound. Winding through the roads of North Pleasanton. Down the home stretch, around the useless traffic circles, through the stop signs, home. I reflected on my journey, seven miles around Pleasanton. Two and a half hours. Good walk.

It was relaxing. I listened music. Sufjan Stevens. Coldplay. Bob Dylan. Dire Straits. Genesis. Moody Blues. Neil Young. Simon & Garfunkel. Vanessa Carlton. Tom Petty. In that order, and how I remember I don't even know. I ran through years of memories I've had here. I burned a couple calories.

If you ever have nothing better to do, or have some things on your mind…try it.

Walk.

Current Mood: Blank

Listening To: "The Voice" by The Moody Blues