here today. {gone} tomorrow.

yes. that's a mattress in the tree.



today was the day they began tearing down {dt.} kinda sad, no? did you ever live there? spend a week there? a weekend? a quick visit? i spent 10 nights there. {efy twice.} when i heard on the radio that they were tearing them down today, i knew i had to go. i thought i would see hordes of people, young and old, coming to watch their pasts, their college memories, their lives even, fall to the rubble. but i was alone in my pursuit to see these old dorms torn up. except for a hurried journalist who drove by in his ksl-fm-90-something-truck and asked me, "did you live there?" i admitted, "no. i never did." sorry sir. no story.

i learned today that each level of each tower was built in the parking lot. and then they would just pick it up and put on top of the first one. so if an earthquake were to happen, the floors would just collapse one on top of the other. what a blessing that never happened. but it does make sense then {hopefully you can tell by the pictures} that they simply ripped the bottom-most floor first. after the foundation is gone, i'm sure it is nearly crumbling-point. i also saw men bashing the structural walls in on the other floors. perhaps i'll go tomorrow and see if there is anything left.

i did arrive a bit too early, though. too little wreckage and too much left standing for an 'interesting' story. i'm glad i arrived when i did. because if buildings could cry, these ones did. they seemed so dignified there. so much life in them. so many secrets + pizza dinners + early mornings + late-night romances + studying + everything college-beautiful. like a tall tree, they stood. holding on as long as they could. like the last tree in the forest. with little else remaining to hold onto but their own pride.