alonetime

I read today that the ipod will go the way of the record player.

I don't like to say dinosaur, as it appears that dinosaurs didn't disappear as the result of some inherent inability to adapt, but because of accidental calamity.

They are going the way of the record player because of something called the Cloud. It's too distracting to capitalize it as such, so we'll call it "the cloud" and you'll have to take my meaning.

The cloud involves the notion that some complete and total archive will, at some point, be accessible for a monthly fee. With some ipod-like device, you'll be able to call forth any song at any point and, probably, 100 suggestions of others songs you might like if that one moves you.

I read this as I continued to rip cds onto my computer, building a substantial library that will, if past history is used as evidence, evaporate in seconds when this laptop fails it's humble driver. Not driver. That's a bad word, since it's used elsewhere in computers. What am I? Typer? Surfer? Wayfinder? Wanderer?

Whatever happens, it's been nice to reacquaint myself with the dustier sections of my cd collection, and to see how they drifted into recognizable patterns. I just got through ripping a few Beatles cds, followed by Springsteen's Nebraska, followed by the Jerry Lee Lewis boxed set.

I can, at best, describe the effect of listening to my cds on random in terms of a good Quentin Tarantino soundtrack. I know he isn't the hippest lad on the block anymore, but he also opened up the pleasures of incongruity as they relate to life experience, so that it all now makes sense, on an unseasonably warm day in October, to watch the kittens attack each other while hearing Pussy Galore, then Entombed, then the coffee cantata by Bach, followed by Laura Nyro, and ending up with a near orgasmic, as if it was all planned, cut from Band on the Run. And the cats, they do play.

*

Jess and I walked to the Main Street Cafe in Townsend where the ever friendly, slightly bumbling, Cambodian proprietor, took our orders and told us why his favorite film was When Harry Met Sally. I would like to think the film popped into his mind because of a certain air of innocent romance about us.

Our talked revolved around, as it often does these days, job seeking. Jess told me that her concern about a law career was the added loans.

A few hours later, Mikey and George came over to train in the attic and we ended on the same subject, with Mikey repeating the same concerns. Mikey came down strong for the position that I'm sort of natural teacher and should pursue high school ed. I listened.

As for the attic, it deserves its own mention.

Our new home is small, and has poetry. The angles are curious. It was built in the 1780's and was famous, in the past decade or so, for the owners spectacular Halloween decorations. We've been warned that people may show up to see this year, although they've made efforts to let everyone know that the display was bought and moved to nearby Groton.

Since it is small, and since we had to negotiate for space, I ended up with the attic. The stairs are broken, so you need a ladder to get up there, but it is a sort of guy's paradise, with wooden walls jutting with rusty nails, a medicine ball, various pulleys and bands, and a ten foot square jiu-jitsu mat. To my eyes, it looks like a primitive Japanese dojo, and its austerity gives me no end of pleasure. I even set up a Zen meditation cushion which I have used once and now seems to be the place where people drop their gym bags. But it's still nice to know I can disappear there if the fancy strikes me.

The attic has the curious feature of retaining heat, so that even on cold nights, it's possible to work out there in comfort. I suppose the summer will be less hospitable. But good for certain types of yoga.

Currently, it is lit only by a worklamp I bought at Home Depot for five dollars.

*

Dufflebag normally goes with his father every other Saturday through Sunday. This week, Jess made the case that Friday night was better and the offer was accepted, so that we actually had a whole day of rare alone time yesterday. We were able to spend the day resting at our will, watching horror movies, and lounging around.

We are so busy with teaching and work and training and kids and family that alone time is rare.

I wouldn't say we squandered it with napping. We were both so tired.

But there is a certain deep sleep that comes on Saturday afternoons, in someone else's soft arms, that trumps a long list of other pleasures.

*

Since writing, I've moved from cds that seemed related to one another to a section that seems random: Motorhead, Jonathan Richmond, Rapeman, Soca music, and the Chieftains, all back to back. The soundtrack!

Jess is upstairs, likely sleeping soundly, and that's where I should be. But I'm on a roll with the ripping, and wanted to share some words before bed.

Another sip of wine. Welcome back, everyone.