Record

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3 Comments

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3 responses to “Record

  1. bed of lamb 666

    When I was pleasant and sane and dashing, I had a vinyl record; you know, platter-sized with a perfect little hole in the middle. When played on my Sunshine Rotary Phonograph, a beautiful melody was heard.

    How beautiful?

    Butterfly-beautiful. Butterflies of memories. Scattered among the meadow like shipwrecked pilgrims. Enough memories to choke a harlot.

    I do not recall the artist of this beautiful recording, only that it replayed my beautiful memories over and over. Like honeysuckle. And twiddly-dee bumblebees, smick-smacking their way along the gracious and pinstriped twilight.

    The sweet chills! My loving, crepe-filled heart! Oh, the happiness of these memories! Painting in unfilled details by number, scratching out new dreams on the sidewalk. Guide me, my recollections, give me my purpose and my life back!

    Lying in bed, three in the afternoon, sleep brushing my face, the sounds of a lifetime rocking, a moored raft in a restless lake. Peace, the breeze of a cemetary, the comfort of the control of my lazy-ass thoughts. Pure, homogenized peace.

    But the same damn record kept playing over and over and now I can’t stand it.

  2. Surly Temple

    I used to have a little record player that I kept in my bedroom. I had three records; one was a musical version of Heidi as sung by what I can only now imagine was the Ray Coniff singers (their jazzy song “Miss Rottenmeier’s Rules” still makes me want to snap my fingers and mutter about it being so ice it burns), one was Johnny Horizon (which was the BLM’s attempt to create a folk hero icon in response to Smoky the Bear), and one was The Rescuers. Every single time that Medusa would screech at Penny to find the diamond “OR YOU’LL NEVER SEE DAYLIGHT AGAIN!” I would stop the record, go in, and ask my mother what that meant. Every time. I liked hearing her explain it.

    The very last time I ever asked her was when I went into the room and got as far as “Mom, what does it mean when she says–” when my mother screeched, very much like Medusa, “It means she will put her down in the cave and leave her there to die, WHICH IS WHAT I WILL DO TO YOU IF YOU EVER ASK ME THAT AGAIN!!!!!”

  3. stewartparker

    For the record, there is nothing wrong with having doubts.
    Nothing wrong with “what if?”
    Nothing wrong with “what might have been?”
    I don’t mind discontent, as long as I feel alive.
    Anything is better than “fine.”

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