2:18 p.m. - 2006-01-20
My Record Player
I want to thank everyone (and that means YOU) who gave me feedback about whether or not my last entry provided a natural ending to my story. I'm still not completely decided (leaning towards yes, but ambivalent). In the meantime, I thought I'd do an entry today of just the stuff of today (taking a hiatus from the story and seeing if I possibly have anything else of interest to say). Here goes:
I have been engaged in the lifelong process of reclaiming that which was lost in increments, basically since birth. Looking into the eyes of almost any newborn would lead me to believe that we have to be carefully taught (partial lyrics from some old sixties song - don't remember the title) to feel that existential shame that drives us to compensate in any number and manner of self destructive ways. Mine happened to be men or, more specifically, the need for validation from same. Always searching for the mirror that would reflect me back in a way that I could live with. As T.S. Elliot measured his life in teaspoons, I measured mine in the eyes of a succession of "admirers" claiming to know me better than I knew myself. To each in turn, I handed my baby soul in the hopes of achieving some indelible stamp of approval, cancelling out the barnacles of self loathing accumulated over time. It was, of course, a doomed pursuit. Once we are tarnished, we make the choices that will confirm what we already believe. And so, out of my insecurity, I chose those who would reaffirm my worst suspicions about myself. All done without my conscious knowledge or consent. All done with mirrors and sleight of hand. The soundtrack for this journey had been lost, as I sold my old records to thrift shops and resale stores. I never really thought about their value or particularly missed those songs that resonated with each step along the way. They maybe garnered me the price of a Three Muskateers and a magazine. It wasn't about the money. They were taking up space. With each move, a few more treasures, of necessity, fell off the caravan ('70 Beetle). When I moved to Idyllwild, the last of my collection went to a neighbor whose apartment continally smelled of incense and marijuana. I didn't even know his name. He was appropriately thrilled. Little by little, I recouped some of my favorites on CD. I found, though, that I was rarely moved to listen to them. When I did, there was something missing. The sound was hallow, lifeless, perfect. This Christmas, I bought myself a record player. A Crosley. Polished cherry wood. Manual motor. Settings for 75, 33 1/3 and 45 rpm. I purchased a little green table and set it up right beside my bed. A passion ignited, driving me into dusty retro stores and introducing me to a part of myself I thought long gone. The first two albums I had purchased on getting my first apartment were "Billion Dollar Baby" by Alice Cooper and "Alladin Sane" by David Bowie. Those, of course, became my first priority. Score! Then I looked for my Paul McCartney & Wings. Joni Mitchell's "Blue". Donovan. T-Rex. Carly Simon. As I listen each night to songs, some of which I haven't heard since I owned them long ago, I am transported somewhere surprisingly accessible. Me. The sounds are haunting, imperfect, raw. Lullabies of everything from ecstacy to despair. Reflections in a looking glass brushed clean. Holy relics of the girl who was and is. I am stunned by her proximity, in awe of her candor, touched by her courage. Sometimes she sings to me in the tender, "world weary before her time" voice of Judy Collins. Sometimes in the brave, cynical beauty of Pink Floyd. Other times, the embarassing naivte of Donovan, ethereal in his long white robe. Decades parade before my closed eyes as I travel through the wardrobe. "Incense and Peppermints". Reclaiming bits in every listening. Last Friday night, I lay with my love, listening to "Tommy". Giggling and "making out" like teenagers, just out of earshot of my hard-of-hearing mom. Dangerous. Free. Around every corner, in each new bin, lies the possibility of yet more to claim. Welcome home.
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