Skip to main content

Featured

the long way around

The living room is a forest of mic stands and cables. A cup of coffee, a large glass of water and a shallow shot of whiskey sit on the tiny white table. I alternate between them, making sure the guitar is in tune, trying to understand if the chair will creak when I lean my head back on the second chorus.  There is a hush in the room. I can hear my own heartbeat. The lyrics are printed out on a fresh piece of paper, large and thick so I can read them easily even though I sing with my eyes closed and will surely forget a handful of words no matter what I do.

The guitar sounds dry, perfect - even honest. I can play a simple D chord with a long strum, or the side of my thumb and it sounds so different. I record a few takes, barefoot in the bright room. I am going too fast in some parts, and my fingers are already sore from the chord changes.

And then all at once, I am thinking of a show I played in an old factory in Brooklyn, way back when I had just started writing songs almost twenty y…

the list


It was a simple request, but it took me months to solve it. Soon we will have guests in the house for V's birthday, and the cascading piles of notes and camera parts, the lopsided villages of books, the forgotten bowls of loose change - they all had to find homes. I even bought a collection of clear, stackable boxes just after Christmas, but they sat like empty open mouths gathering bits of fluff and dust in them until today. With little flakes of fresh snow dancing against the windows, I began at one end of the room.

The problem with cleaning is that you constantly find lost treasures, windows into your past lives. Here, a set of notes from a film I was writing some seven years ago. Here, the warranty for a watch I bought for N (that I still need to register). And next, a Soviet ruble that I bought in Tbilisi at the dry bridge market, the location of the lost wonders of the world. Next to a broken saxophone and an old rug, I remember noticing a handful of old coins that I bought for E. The man wore thick glasses, his face pock-marked, his smile almost forced as we discussed the price. He knew I was going to buy them no matter what so I was in no position to haggle.

And here, a shopping list. Butter, sugar, dish soap, paper towels. The most mundane needs, except I did not write it - N did. Her handwriting is all curlicues, with little dots next to each item. But most important, it is in English. This was for V's first birthday party, I am sure of it. How odd to find it now, practically the same day it was written but two years later. The lens looks backwards, and the picture is always of the person taking it. The list is a milestone, a sharp reminder of how we live, and what is important, what we need to remember. The rest is just noise.

Comments

Popular Posts

best personal blogs
best personal blogs