Constant Replay

by

I have been listening to a new album recently and I am just smitten–The Myna Birds–What We Lose in the Flood We Gained in The Fire.

Oh my god.

Total new band crush.  I can’t stop listening to it.  I actually figured out how to delete Pandora station at work to program them in.

I have listened to the album at least seven or eight times since I got it.

I know its good when I don’t even want to do anything but listen to it.  Or I get excited hearing a new song and it has [oh my, stomping my foot so hard rocking out to track number  9] a line that I have to hear again, and again, and again.

I just stopped to take a phone call.  My love to my Joan Pie.  See you Sunday darling!

Hmm, play it again?

Ok.

Music, there is just something about it.  The things I need in my life–love, friends, music, writing, books, recovery.  Need.

Music is a necessity, a life requirement.  I need to sing.  I need to hear music.  I get so caught up in it.  I could have been a gospel singer in another life.

I used to be jealous of my Aunt MaryBeth, I loved her singing voice.  I hear some one sing well and I get so taken with the idea of having a voice that can belt it out.  I love Glee, I can admit it, I love singing.

Oddly enough I am not a huge fan of musicals.  They don’t really move me.

Then again I have only been to a few.  Wicked, a couple of productions in high school,  nothing that stands out.  I think I went to Wicked with an ex-boyfriend for Valentines Day.  It was ok.

Not worth $70.

I like to go to bed with an album playing and listen to it while I drift off in a warm black haze of notes and swaths of rhythms.

Not always.

In fact, often times I find it more challenging to fall asleep with music playing then without.

But sometimes, like recently, I get smitten, I get taken, I get wrapped up in an album and I just want to hear it again.

I am a junkie.

Fix me up please.

I want to nod out in my white cloud of a bed, snuggled in under the comforter drifting through the landscape of dreams and drum beats and vocals.

Smart vocals, lustful, fuzzed out, reverbed, tangled up in the rattle of cymbals and the wah wah pedal, and the occasional interjection of an old Hammond organ.

I think it’s a Hammond, I don’t know why.

I just do.

I also find it a little romantic.  I want to share the album with some one.  I want to slow dance around the room.  I want to get caught singing my heart out and be loved for it.

Baby if you want to be right, I will let you be right, you know the numbers don’t lie, the numbers don’t lie.

Two wrongs don’t make a right.

I remember Justin walking in on me in the back bedroom in the first house we lived in together in Madison after the Co-op on Lake and Langdon.  We were in the top floor of a two-story Victorian with wood floors.  It had a huge front porch down below that we shared with all the common neighbors.

We had many room mates–Matt, Naboja, myself, and Justin.  Then there were the parties and the girlfriends and the chess games and the bongs and the pot and the police and the heroin junkie room-mate that never paid rent, and Justin cheating on me with a woman who actually had a crush on me and wanted to sleep with Justin and me and then ended up dating Naboja for a while.

That was a place to live.

I can romantize the hell out of anything though, music can take me there.

I don’t want to talk, so keep to yourself.

Heather, that was her name, Justin cheated on me with Heather.  There was a second woman as well, I never met her, however.

I still stayed with him.

Ah, love.

hahahahahahahahahahaha

Ah, alcoholic dysfunction.

I mean love.

There was this moment, and there were others, although the bad really outweighed the good in the end with Justin, which I will never forget.

I was wearing a skirt I had fashioned from an old dress of my mom’s.  I wish I still had this dress,  it was a long A-line skirt in a navy and red fine print plaid, drop waist, button down bodice, short sleeves, wide dress shirt color.

I can almost see how young and beautiful my mom is in it, still to this day, might be my favorite dress of all time.  Just holding the vision of my mother in that dress.

Ah.

I had cut it in half, tore off the bodice and fashioned the skirt to fit me. I was wearing it with a blue leotard, a dance leotard, I also had fancied myself a dancer (not really trained, just a longing for it, you know, a fantasy) and I love the way it looked, the long leotard, the full skirt, I would swirl about the apartment with it.

My god.  I must have looked like a little hippie.

Barefoot, long hair, navy blue leotard, long skirt, dancing in my room, thinking no one else was there, Sunrise on the Surfer Bus, the song–When Jody Sings–belting out of my mouth, I twirled around the room singing out my heart.

Justin was standing in the door way watching me.  I have no idea how long.

“You are so beautiful.”

I must have gone thirteen shades of red.  And no matter how fucked up that relationship was I will always remember him looking at me like that, in awe, lovestruck, long lanky body leaned in the frame of the white door way.

No one to watch me dance right now, so I dance for myself.

I listen to the words and I forgive him and I forgive me and I move on.

And I listen to music now because I like it.

Too much common sense will leave a bad taste in your mouth, so wash it out, so wash it out, wash it out.

Leave your plans by the sea.

When the tide comes in.

Let them bleed.

And wash it out

Wash it out

Wash it out.

Guitar, drums, drums, drums, drums, bang.

Oh. God damn. It is good.

Thank you.

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