I lived in Boulder, Colorado from 1995-1998. I went to school there, and I really loved it. I look back on my days there with a mix of feelings that I have been sitting here awhile trying to describe. Can’t find words for it. In the body it sort of feels like a butterflies-in-the-stomach thing mixed equal thirds dread and nostalgia. It’s not a 100% pleasant feeling. But Boulder, USA in the late 90s was a … time.
I didn’t have the most conventional experience at a big state school. I wasn’t in a sorority and I went to only one football game (when my parents visited) – although “Go Buffs!” comes as easy to me as “Go Buccs!”. For my final year, I spent a semester working among a community of nuns in Houston (another post for another day), and then went abroad to Ecuador. I never came back to graduate, and I haven’t been back to Colorado at all since.
On this plane I can already catch the vibe, man. Boulder people. My studio with the red window, Neil Young on rotation, surviving for months on contraband Illegal Pete’s, my Mom’s porch in Chautauqua, the smell of formaldehyde/fruit fly agar/photo lab, Drew leaving, Sundowner vs. Soma vs. K’s China, going as Sweep-the-leg Johnny for Halloween, etc.
I fear that if I spend a day there my memory bank will rupture from the swift return of material long buried deep in the stacks.
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