Music was
the fuel we ran on. The dreams of future past.
Each flip of
an album showing us where we’d been, where we were, and where we were going.
Much more
than just music, the messages clicked, brought instant recognition to things we
understood in a more visceral way, that had now been given voice.
The
musicians, our tribe.
Unhurried
hours pressed up against waist-high wood bins at The Penguin Feather Head Shop
& Record Store. Colorful albums organized A through Z, punctuated by
alphabet cops, letter signs held high above the crowd, trail markers.
Patchouli
marinade, quadraphonic sound… stunning album art, equally anticipated.
Looking for
answers, looking for ourselves.
-------------------------------------------------
Fast forward
too many years to name comfortably.
Vinyl and
CD’s, little more than dust magnets.
Shouting out
instructions to Siri or Alexa, play this, play that. Frustrated by her lack of
depth. No memory of a time when artists reached out to us with songs we had
brewing inside, eager for release.
Music now
more background than fore, piped down every isle. We maneuver a cart around the
heavy older woman, her scooter parked next to the pinto beans, considering her
options. Struggling to reach without leaving the safety of her chair, wrapped
up in ancient tie dye, fading peace signs, a mane of grey hair…and blue.
Still
tangled up in blue.
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