Well, May is upon us. It's the time of pollen, ragweed, sundresses, oh, and Spring cleaning.
I had more or less become a hoarder in the last three months. I was using my house as a giant closet that I sometimes showered in, preferring the company of my friends and their couches to being alone in my humble abode. There were shoes scattered all about in every corner, records strewn all about, dishes stacked up, and then the room. THE room. The second room that was originally intended to be my now not so significant other's recording studio...THAT one. I had a blip of hope where I was going to turn it into a closet, but instead decided to rent it out for the extra cash, and to bring some new energy into this place.
The only man of the house.
The last few weeks in my life have been absolutely insane. I have taken care of sick friends, had relatives (as in more than one) get diagnosed with various ailments, a few financial hurdles to overcome, and a lot of stuff on my mind. To say I felt completely frazzled is an understatement. I felt like a tree with no roots...the exact opposite of grounded.
So, I did what usually works. I dumped all of my records in the floor and sat in the middle of them. I knew that some of them had been swiped in my previous encounter, so I wanted to make sure what was still here. I took each one out and lovingly cleaned each side, listened to each and every track, and then proceeded to catalog. Yeah, as in, I made a spreadsheet of what I have...with notes. As in "Mono, UK. Scratch halfway through Track 3 side 2, water damage cover---still playable, with all inserts." It sounds terribly nerdy, because it is.
Of course, in the process of the great reorganization, I discovered what had been taken. They say "You don't know what you've got until you lose it." and that was certainly the case for me. I thought about what this meant....
For anyone who has known me long enough, it's common knowledge that I love my records more than I love most people. I seldom can avoid pulling over any time I know that there is even a vendor inside an antique store...even if it's just to look. These are moments I live for. When I pull out a record from a bin tucked away in some dingy and dusty old back room, and I know that within those grooves lies magic, it gives me chills. It makes me high. It even hurts sometimes...the exquisite pain...sometimes to the point of feeling like my chest is going to burst open. I have often spent my last money on records instead of food. Records feed me more.
Some people can tell when they've undergone emotional turmoil by their weight fluctuating, their house becoming a contender for an episode of "Hoarders", a half hearted attempt at getting out of bed most days....and yes, these were all true for me, but I knew something was seriously wrong with me when I didn't even want to go to the record store, and wouldn't even bother lifting the needle to drop a glorious piece of wax down on my table. With my house in a terrible state of disarray, laundry piled up higher than Mount Everest, and dishes from food I didn't even remember eating leftover still sitting in the sink, I did what was best for me. I pulled everything out, and started over. I forced myself to sit in the floor of this house that had become a millstone around my neck, and make amends with my children.
As I underwent my project, I thought back to a moment I had shared with my family on Easter Sunday. Being the good daughter I try to be, I got dressed up and went to church with them because that's what my mother had requested. As we drove back to their house, my mom made a comment about people who don't believe in Jesus. I bit my tongue, knowing that religion is a hot topic for anyone, especially in the south. When the concept of someone going to Hell was brought up, I did speak up and say "Well, it's not really up to you to decide, is it?" and that started the "Well, WHAT are you, then? Buddhist? Atheist? WHAT?" To which my response was "Look, no one really knows. We are all in this together. And we'll all find out when we get there." Broad, vague, generic. The whole concept of religion is so personal, and I never like to attack whatever gets somebody through the night. When asked if there was a God in the Christian sense, my response was "Look, I don't know what. No one does. But I know there's something bigger than me out there, and I call it God. But it's not up to me to cut someone down for what they feel, or to tell them that they are going to your concept of Hell. It's just not." To which I was prodded with "Well, if you're so smart, how do YOU KNOW that there's something out there?"I wanted to tell her, I really did. But I knew it would sound so terribly foreign to someone who doesn't "get it."
I wanted to tell her I knew that there was something bigger than me out there because of the nights I have stayed up sitting in between my speakers listening to the same song over and over again. I know there's something greater than me because of the way my body reacts to that third cup of coffee at 3 AM and I'm washed over by the sounds of one of my old friends.
My nights. Every night.
Maybe it's consistency that comforts me. The fact that this disc was around long before I was, and if I play my cards right, will be around long after I am gone. The songs I listen to now sounded just the same as they did when I was ten, and fifteen, and twenty, and will always. For someone who's life has been a giant question mark as long as I could remember, the fact that these will never change is such a source of comfort. Between that, and the way my brain reacts to the noises that come out of these old speakers that I can only relate to the greatest high? The fact that something that others deem noise was the only thing that made me feel not alone, and that everything was going to be ok? The nights where you revisit something you've heard literally hundreds of times and it can still make you feel so in love that it hurts? That is how I know there is something bigger than me out there.
And they must really really dig me.
Happy listening, rock n rollers. May the power of tunes compel you.
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