Musical DNA

Every time I glance at my shelf, that shelters my CDs with an intense grip, like a mother keeping her cub warm while the snow melts, all I see are colorful, sleek spines on a shelf. But if I took the time to examine the dusty worn jewel cases, I couldn’t help but escape back to the times of my youth, when my world was awakened by a single CD.

Though playlists can be seen as a spiritual successor, nothing will come close to the lost art of the mixtape. The thought and care that one must put in, to make a physical, personalized selection of the music just for you, is immense. Even if I may have missed the age of the cassette tape, I experienced both the height and the downfall of the compact disc. Something that is rapidly fading away nowadays; a mere shadow of its former image.

Songs of Utter Importance, the title of the entrance to my musical infatuation, the glaring exit sign that hung inside the sheltered, silent existence which I laid in. It was a “mix-cd” from my father, and was the only thing inside my off-brand discman. I played it to my little heart’s content, to the point where it was unable to read a track or two. The tracks not only included the classics, like Queen or The Who, but the great obscure bands, like Persephone’s Bees or The Blue Van. I would blast them through my flimsy pair of Skullcandy headphones, until my father bought me a boombox. Everybody got a taste eventually.

I was already quite fortunate to grow up surrounded by music. Everything from P-Funk to Black Metal, I was always aware of the eclectic nature of music, but I didn’t always care. I was ignorant towards its importance, and the intricate world within its creative walls. But with time, I was shaped, molded by the rhythms and grooves that were widely promoted by this CD, having them nested firmly within my young and malleable ears. I became one with the rhythm, feeling a sensation like no other.

The warmth I experienced with music never went away. When I’ve had a long, tiring day, waiting for time to strike, it being late and hurried, and I feel as if my muscles are about to snap and retract, all I want is a little peace and quiet. I, alone in my chambers, wrap my cold, lifeless ears with plush, pillow-y muffs, as my body and mind require the most solace. I am swept away into another realm.

The coarse sounds of life are hidden within a thick, yet sensitive layer of sound and rhythm. The grooves twist and turn, unable to calm its prolific amusement. The percussionist within falls deep into its trap, becoming prey to its systematic control. I feel my eardrums swell with every adjustment in volume.

I soon forget what’s playing. The intensity of the complex mix of tones and melodies become white and blank, creating the perfect silence. My mind becomes vulnerable, it opening my thoughts obediently to its new owner. My inner angels and demons spill, drowning out the devoteless mind. My imagination fleets, intertwining my auditory senses with ambivalent frequencies like a string of musical DNA.

As soon as I reach the peak: the epitome of self indulgence; the high descends into obscurity, leaving me naked and empty. The brain is switched back on, to reveal an unchanged and unfulfilled reality that was once avoided. I then return to the world, realizing I can no longer hide within a blanket musical euphoria. The music never leaves; never sleeps at all. No matter how many times I may repeat my disc, creating gashes and scars on the smooth playable surface of a disc or the course ridged faces of a record, thinning the tape within the weak plastic casing of a cassette, or corrupting the files on your portable player: the music will never leave.

“To live is to be musical, starting with the blood dancing in your veins. Everything living has a rhythm. Do you feel your music?” ― Michael Jackson

Brain Damage

The soothing sounds of the tuned eclipse echoed, as the blood erupted and ran down their temple. The glistening eyes matched the enamel of the shards that swiftly drained the body. The bedroom became layered in wood chips and smoke, puffing it’s lungs, like a woodland animal during a forest fire. Auntie didn’t mean it. Something had gone wrong.

Auntie was a good woman, a scholar: a proud woman of three beautiful, strong girls, and a loving and caring wife. She had a quaint little house on Danbury Lane. She loved her neighborhood, and loved her town. She married her high school crush in ‘68, and they began a wonderful family together. Emphasis on “began.”

Auntie had 23 fantastic years as a loving wife, mother, scholar, and a good woman. But after the youngins grew to become hard working, independent older-ins, the household grew to much bickering and controversy — it became utter mayhem. Her three beautiful girls drifted away from her, leaving the nest in an angry haze. After that, Uncle became an alcoholic, regretting most of his miniscule and meaningless life decisions. He fell out of the marketing business (much like one would fall out of a moving train), and found that he could do with a much slower-paced job; construction.

Auntie realized and accepted that she would continue her journey, taking care of an embarrassing, heap of nothingness, waste-of-human-resources construction worker, that she still loved deep down. VERY deep down. After downsizing to a small, decrepit, health hazardous apartment, and selling most of her precious belongings, Auntie found solace with what she had.

At this point, Uncle didn’t spend too much time with Auntie. He preferred to eat his TV dinners alone while watching reruns of  M.A.S.H. He blamed himself for everything that went wrong with the family. Auntie blamed herself too, but she knew the wounds would heal with time. The dull days ticked and wasted away.

Auntie felt like they were growing distant every day. They fought more and more; it was endless. Every day, you could hear from outside, “Turn off that damn psychedelic, rock n roll crap, woman!” or “Can you stop leaving your trash on the couch? What if we have company?!” They never did have company. They were shunned out of their respective friend groups and book clubs.

Auntie still held out hope. She knew that one day, she could convince her husband and herself that everything was fine, and that her kids would come crawling back. Auntie never knew how bad it had gotten until Uncle threw a toaster at her head. He didn’t mean to do it, but the anger took control, and it just happened. He was so angry, and threw it so hard, he almost put Auntie into a goddamn coma.

After the ambulance came, she was put into the hospital. Uncle had to buy the groceries and made himself food. All he bought were raisins and wine coolers. He slowly adjusted to his new lifestyle. At first, it wasn’t too bad. All that was different was that he had to get up and leave the house more often. But after a few days, he started to miss Auntie. Delivering him TV dinners, along with the newspaper and a cold beer; He didn’t realize how alone he felt.

The day had come. After a long week, It was time to pick up Auntie from the hospital. Uncle was excited to see his wife again. She emerged from the hospital like a newborn deer, hesitant to walk, yet doing it anyway. They drove home, and Uncle pretended like nothing had happened. He was a little nicer than usual, which he thought Auntie would appreciate. He even let her play some of her favorite music, most of which Uncle despised. Auntie felt distant. She looked uncomfortable and confused. She stared at Uncle every so often. Not with any old stare. The kind that sent knives through your soul. Uncle didn’t understand. Why was Auntie like this?

The behavior continued throughout the weeks. She wanted to be alone. She started to spout nonsense, about how Uncle was a “double,” and that he was not who he claimed to be. Auntie made it clear that she wasn’t afraid of him, frightening Uncle for his safety. Rightfully so, too. Auntie started to hide sharp objects around the house. He called for the hospital to pick her up and take her away. He didn’t want to lose Auntie, but he didn’t want to lose his life either.

Auntie, overhearing Uncle’s plans, equipped herself with a serrated kitchen knife. She started chopping towards Uncle. He ran into the bedroom, maintaining an adrenaline count higher than his cholesterol. He tried barricading the door, but all the furniture seemed to be bolted down. Auntie was prepared. She started screaming, and hacked away at the door, just like something out of The Shining. Uncle was panicking. He tried finding something to defend himself with, but his assorted array of guns had been ransacked. Auntie always hated guns.

He ran to the window, which was screwed shut, and banged on it for help. There was nothing he could do. Auntie eventually made it through the door, leaving specks and slivers of mahogany scattered across the floor. Auntie had a fearful, yet slightly demonic look in her eye, slowly advancing to uncle. Def by the sound of her own drum, she wielded her knife, ready to strike. Blood spurted out of Auntie’s head as Uncle cowered in fear. Uncle raised his head and arms quickly, in time to catch the brutal corpse of his former wife. A heavily disgruntled police officer stands before Uncle and his betrothed corpse.

Uncle wept as he held his wife in his arms underneath the shining skyline. The police officer leaves the two alone, turning off the record player. The silence in the room echoed, as the moon eclipsed the sun.