I was eight years old when Back to the Future II came out in theaters. I remember how anxiously my brother waited to see it after reading the book, how he went on and on about the book being better and key plot holes due to missing scenes from the book during the alternate 1989 sequences. But most of all, I remember thinking I'd never live to be old enough to see the year 2015.
It was "the future" and at the time, I cold barely handle the thought of Prince partying like it was 1999. In my world, 2015 might as well have been a thousand years away. And yet, here it is. In two hours, it will officially be Wednesday, October, 2015.
There are no flying cars, no hoverboards, no re-hydrated and no self-lacing shoes. The kids don't wear their pockets hanging out of their jeans, I can't stuff trash into my gas line to make my car run on rotting leftovers (though that would be cool and hella better for landfills) but on the other hand, we actually do have video chatting, google glass, smart phones, self-driving cars, satellite images of every inch of the planet and y'know that whole internet thing is pretty cool too. literally all the knowledge of the world free at your fingertips. I'm pretty sure that's better than a flying car.
I remember watching the Back to the Future trilogy endlessly with my dad and my brother and wondering what it would be like to travel through time. I'm sure Marty would disagree but if I cold go back to 1955, I'd probably never leave. The idea of meeting a boy for a milkshake and cheeseburger is pretty much the quintessential post-war Americana love story stuff dreams are made of.
And the music! What I wouldn't give to see Buddy Holly perform live, to be able to dance close with a boy as my pink chiffon dress shuffled across the floor and I closed my eyes tightly wondering if ever a day might come when he'd take that big next step and finally kiss me on the lips.
If I could go back in time to 1955 I think my first purchase would be a 45 record single of The Penguins "Earth Angel" and bring it back with me to present time. The single itself is worth far more than I could ever afford to spend on one vinyl issued song but it's such a perfect song of innocent love and romance. I can't explain exactly what it is about that song but it's just perfection.
Maybe in some alternate universe I already live there and life is pure bliss. But for now, I guess I'll just keep spinning the vinyl I have and settle for traveling through time with my eyes closed.
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
Thursday, October 1, 2015
Stories Written on Reeds and Strings
I'll never forget the first time I heard Alex play the bass clarinet. It the late winter of 7th grade and as he opened with a solo to our middle school symphonic band's first piece with one half note and two eighth notes. In that moment, shattering the silence with the deep echoes off the cafeteria walls with the timbre of his vibrato against the reed, I fell in love.
Maybe I was misguided and only fell in love with him because of the music, but in nearly three decades of studying music, I've never been more in love with anyone than at that moment, with him.
From there, I fell in love with two drummers, three saxophone players, one guitar player, an a pianist. Through the years though, I don't think I ever felt another kind of "Alex" type of love until I heard the mandolin.
I still remember standing in the living room talking to him, our footsteps clacking across the wood floors as we made out way to the couch. His name was Jim and he had long blonde hair, just past his chin that curled ever so slightly at the ends, ripped jeans and a plaid flannel shirt that assured me I wasn't the only one carrying the 90s into the next decade. I can still remember the name of his cologne and the way his fingers moved so effortlessly across the strings of his guitar when he'd close his eyes and sing. His guitar made mine look like it came out of a crackerjack box but he seemed intrigued enough to want to write songs with me and play together in the front lawn on Sundays.
Ironically, I can't remember if he actually played the mandolin himself, or if I only heard it on the radio that day and have forever associated those feelings of love with the starving artist who, like so many other guys, saw me as another one of the guys. He told me of the girls he loved, the loves he'd lost, and the hopes he had for the future. As expected, I wasn't in his gameplan. I remember writing love poems about him that summer and casting wishful thoughts into the night sky that someday he might realize I was singing songs about him.
I haven't seen him in almost 15 years; our chance meeting was over almost as quickly as it began, and I undoubtedly evanesced into the attic of his memories until even those were no more.
I still think of him every time I hear the mandolin. I wonder if he still plays music. I wonder if we would even recognize each other if we were to pass on a street corner in some small town neither of us lived in. I was nothing more than another sigh between chord progressions he'd pick and choose form to pass the time on the lawn after church but even still, I can't help but wonder if maybe sometimes, on the rarest of occasions, he hears someone play an A-minor chord on an old acoustic guitar and for the briefest moment, a light fog blows through his memory... something about a vegetarian hippie and a wide-neck Spanish guitar...
It would be a fuzzy memory at best, but it would make all the wishing stars worth the wait.
Maybe I was misguided and only fell in love with him because of the music, but in nearly three decades of studying music, I've never been more in love with anyone than at that moment, with him.
From there, I fell in love with two drummers, three saxophone players, one guitar player, an a pianist. Through the years though, I don't think I ever felt another kind of "Alex" type of love until I heard the mandolin.
I still remember standing in the living room talking to him, our footsteps clacking across the wood floors as we made out way to the couch. His name was Jim and he had long blonde hair, just past his chin that curled ever so slightly at the ends, ripped jeans and a plaid flannel shirt that assured me I wasn't the only one carrying the 90s into the next decade. I can still remember the name of his cologne and the way his fingers moved so effortlessly across the strings of his guitar when he'd close his eyes and sing. His guitar made mine look like it came out of a crackerjack box but he seemed intrigued enough to want to write songs with me and play together in the front lawn on Sundays.
Ironically, I can't remember if he actually played the mandolin himself, or if I only heard it on the radio that day and have forever associated those feelings of love with the starving artist who, like so many other guys, saw me as another one of the guys. He told me of the girls he loved, the loves he'd lost, and the hopes he had for the future. As expected, I wasn't in his gameplan. I remember writing love poems about him that summer and casting wishful thoughts into the night sky that someday he might realize I was singing songs about him.
I haven't seen him in almost 15 years; our chance meeting was over almost as quickly as it began, and I undoubtedly evanesced into the attic of his memories until even those were no more.
I still think of him every time I hear the mandolin. I wonder if he still plays music. I wonder if we would even recognize each other if we were to pass on a street corner in some small town neither of us lived in. I was nothing more than another sigh between chord progressions he'd pick and choose form to pass the time on the lawn after church but even still, I can't help but wonder if maybe sometimes, on the rarest of occasions, he hears someone play an A-minor chord on an old acoustic guitar and for the briefest moment, a light fog blows through his memory... something about a vegetarian hippie and a wide-neck Spanish guitar...
It would be a fuzzy memory at best, but it would make all the wishing stars worth the wait.
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