Trying on a different life

I'm listening to somebody else's records in somebody else's home. Somebody else isn't here, but I'm settling in. I went to the books first and scanned the shelves. I looked for the books I'd read and the books I want to read. I looked for a connection to my interests, then I looked for a pattern. My efforts were not so concentrated as they sound, but as I scanned the shelves I tried to put together this person that I didn't know. How was she like me? She had "Men are from Mars.." How was she different? Dorothy Parker, financial success for women, feminism, I soon lost track. This was not my literary double. With my head tilted, I then scanned the titles for books that I wanted to skim. I found "Why Men Love Bitches."

I switched from Zeppelin to Supertramp.

At first the records seem more accessible than the books. Perhaps, this is a function of their weight and the commitment they require. Why Men Love Records? Unable to focus, I moved to the DVD collection, but found nothing that I needed now, certainly not "Bridget Jones' Diary". v. much no, thank you.

Supertramp turns to Bruce Springsteen.

I made another lap around the house, arms tucked behind me like a speed skater, though my walk and my eye were more like those of the art student. I studied the pictures and paintings, the candles and saucers on the mantle, the clutter of existence. Every object told a piece of story I didn't know. One wall hanging held my eye. The top was a vibrant red hand print on a black background. On an Indian tablet below the precise lettering of an elementary school student proudly proclaimed the recess skills that every child wanted. The confidence of the young student echoed in the confidence of the thick wooden frame.

Springsteen became Aretha Franklin.

I returned to the records and pored over them. I feel like a man lost in another time. I have nostalgia for a life I haven't led. My studies again follow a similar trajectory as I look for the intersection of familiar and interesting. The familiar are less widespread when I realize that my reference point for record collections is my parents'. A few records overlap, but much of this collection veers closer to the days of CD, or at least cassette tape. I begin to pull records from the shelf. The other records close the gap and I lose track of the exact location. I'll slide the sleeves back in as best I can and hope my host is not like Rob of "High Fidelity" organizing and re-organizing the collection by major life events.

I open the sleeve and pour the black grooved disc out. It feels so delicate. The delicacy is compounded by the fear of damaging someone else's property. Has age made records more brittle? I suspect they've always been brittle and delicate, that's why my dad severely limited my handling privileges. Holding my breath, I move the needle without shaking or scratching. The record spins on and then crackles to a start. There's something violent and satisfying about starting a record and finding a groove.

Then it stops.

More Aretha.