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Recollection
3/30/21 11:29 pmSometimes I think about songs I haven't listened to in years, and how important they were for me then. The memories aren't even dim. I remember being in that basement room and slaving over my translations, the whir of the cd drive as I ripped each new album, each new single, painstakingly sourced from Kinokuniya or ebay or secondhand from a forum. I remember going to conventions and the heat of high summer in L.A. and Texas and sweating under the layers of makeup and wig and how my costume was awkward on the bottom and awkward on top and perfect in the middle. There was no way I could afford to drop $350 on boots at the time. Now it seems not trivial, but not out of the range of what is possible.
I remember my first trip to Japan and how lost I felt a lot of the time, in that age before I ever dreamed of owning a smartphone. I used a payphone to call home a couple of times. I remember the way the secondhand stores smelled, places I found the missing parts to my discography collection. There will always be a missing piece; I've never found 割れた窓, and probably never will, though they've released the b-side a few times, and I own those compilation discs. Well, a couple of them.
I still own almost all my cds. A few have been lost, lent out and never returned or simply misplaced; a few were gifted or sold. But I no longer own anything that I can listen to them on without turning them digital first. I still reflexively buy cds from my favorite band, but I also buy them on itunes.
I collect a lot of things these days. Dust, I might add, rolling my eyes at my heaps of clutter. My possessions don't fit in a room anymore, didn't fit in a condo, overflowed into storage units and still fill one. I sometimes want to get rid of as much as I can, start over fresh, throw things back into the wild via donations and thrift stores and ebay and secondhand shops. But instead I sleep and dream and remember.
I remember my first trip to Japan and how lost I felt a lot of the time, in that age before I ever dreamed of owning a smartphone. I used a payphone to call home a couple of times. I remember the way the secondhand stores smelled, places I found the missing parts to my discography collection. There will always be a missing piece; I've never found 割れた窓, and probably never will, though they've released the b-side a few times, and I own those compilation discs. Well, a couple of them.
I still own almost all my cds. A few have been lost, lent out and never returned or simply misplaced; a few were gifted or sold. But I no longer own anything that I can listen to them on without turning them digital first. I still reflexively buy cds from my favorite band, but I also buy them on itunes.
I collect a lot of things these days. Dust, I might add, rolling my eyes at my heaps of clutter. My possessions don't fit in a room anymore, didn't fit in a condo, overflowed into storage units and still fill one. I sometimes want to get rid of as much as I can, start over fresh, throw things back into the wild via donations and thrift stores and ebay and secondhand shops. But instead I sleep and dream and remember.
