When I was a boy my Mother said: “There’s no in between with Mark. He’ll either be a priest or in prison.” Now I’m a man. I’m determined and I’m decisive. I deliberate. I decide. I declare. I am an all-or-nothin’ kind of fellow. I’ve never been one to sit straddled. I love it or I hate it. I’ve yet to meet my indifferent.
I have two activities that I hold quite dear:
1. I love a bath on a rainy day with a good novel and a dangerously dangling ashtray balanced on the rim of the tub. I like a soda on th
e seat and a towel near the mat so I can dry my hands prior to the turning of the pages. I place my feet on each side of the spigot and I place my head on the enamel at the back. As the water cools, I drain from the pool and toe the tap to fill the drought. If it’s a great book, it’s better. If it’s not, the time’s not for naught. I enjoy the experience. It’s one of my favorites.
2. I love discovering new music. I love the acquisition. I love the ascertainment. And I don’t listen to the entire album at one time. I haven’t done that since vinyl. I had a ritual with vinyl. I put the album on the turntable. I placed the ashtray on the coffee table. I placed my head on the side cushion of the couch and I held the cover in my hands. If the artist was a favorite, I sat on needles and pins and hoped I wasn’t disappointed. I followed the text as I listened to the tracts. If I loved a song, I sat upright and reset the tonearm. I’ve been known to grind the groove from the discovery of a diamond. And I’ve scratched more than the surface of the songs I’ve etched in my memory.
As our cars grow bigger, our music shrinks smaller: compact discs, iPODs, MP3s. I don’t mind the minuscule except for the markings. I hate the smaller covers. An album cover was the second art we owned in our youth.
After crayon colorings, we discovered the photographic evidence that the music was more than just sound. I remember a childhood with crayoned covers and erased eyes evolving into sufficient surfaces for studied subjects. An album cover was my canvas to de-seed or to doodle during a decision. And as my age demanded larger texts, the demands decided smaller spaces. Listening became less about art and more about artifice.
Yet, I’m still attentive while I listen. I still try to ascertain their intention. I still appreciatively applaud their expression. Let me make this clear. I love the clarity. I love hearing all the new sounds. But I miss an old sound too. I miss the scratching sound of the tonearm when it stumbled until it caught into its groove. And although I don’t long for the days of playing vinyl, I do recall the days when a long playing record meant the length I listened and not the longing I’d feel as I aged.
I sound old. And isn’t it ironic that I’ll soon turn 45? What will we listen to when I turn 78? I wonder if I’ll still rant. Will I still record my thoughts here? Probably not. Let’s hope I’ll discover a new passion. I hate to think I’ll leave this earth saying the same thing over and over again and sounding like a broken record.
April 24, 2007
