Brevity is the Soul of Wit

Barnes and Noble is dangerous ground for me. So much so that I’ve laid down cardinal rules that I follow always (almost).
Rule #1: Never go unless I have money to spend.
Rule #2: Never go when I’m moody, bored, or avoiding responsibility or people.
Rule #3: Bring a Sponsor.
Rule #4: Go in knowing what I’m after.

Who am I kidding, I never follow any of my rules.

Case in point- I went in for a book I wasn’t convinced I wanted over all the others (breaking Rule #4) while I was avoiding homework (breaking Rule #2) and alone (breaking Rule #3).

Hm, I’ll just go look over here now.

Oh- what’s on this table?

So, of course, I find something I never knew I needed.

But this time it was a good find! No, really, it was.

A little bright green book at the top of the self entitled “It All Changed In An Instant”. It is a published writing project sponsored by a literary magazine of six word memoirs. Six. No more no less. Thou shalt go no farther than six, nor less than six. Nor shall thou count in twos, but only by ones, to six. (Pop quiz: name that movie).

A life story told in six words. The minimalist in me squealed.

I was completely captivated by what was not said; by what was hugely implied by carefully chosen words. By the novels between the lines:

“Geek got LASIK. Life started over.”
“Had kitties. Not kiddies. God misunderstood.”
“Studied Psych, went psycho. Exploring psyche. “
“Mommy, why won’t Daddy wake up?”
“Blonde tramp found husband, and conscience. “
“Goth girl, white cat, lint roller.”
“Visited Kenya, returned to build church.”

These memoirs are amazingly intimate. How could I not love this? Ordinary people choosing six words for the opportunity to be published, to tell their story. Which part of their life would they deem more important than all the others? How to succinctly say it all with the understanding that it cannot all be said?

And, the biggest question of them all: what would mine say?

Wanted: mad man with blue box.
Writer suffering in permanent writer’s block.
Peace purchased in currency of loss.
I would have given you children.
Wino reconciles her love of beer.

No, no, I know:

Started college, dropped out. Received education.

I lead an exciting life, people, lemme me tell ya. (And, by "people" at this moment I mean my two jolly followers.) I'm young, single, well read, think I'm funny, upwardly mobile, and... spent the last month's worth of Friday nights glancing between reruns of Big Bang, the interweb, or my various books. Add a cat to the mix and I'm shapin up to be model Cat Lady. Oh- Roommate's cat just slunk around the corner. Shit.

It's currently 10:45pm on just such a Friday and I am painfully aware that I've not had a drink all week. Wow, I sound like a lush.

Jonesy's been milling around in circles. This blog isn't going to help her chattering.

Wanted: The Blue Box

There is a man in a blue box who is called The Doctor. He has all of space and time opened to him through the zchruoosh, zchruoosh, zshree, zshree of the blue box’s engines. And, he doesn’t know it yet, but one day I’ll hitch a ride.

This is probably what professionals call “living under a delusion”. I think I’m ok with that; they can put it in my permanent record. Because the Doctor keeps me dreaming and keeps me wondering.

When I was younger, I would lie in my backyard in the chilly, stiff crab grass and peer up at the stars, straining to see them through the city’s lights. I would hold my breath and lie perfectly still, willing myself to float off the ground behind me and into the syrupy black in front of me. Sometimes, while lying there, I would rock my head backwards so I could feel that upside-down rush of vertigo- thinking that I could use that exhilaration as a booster to get closer to the stars just like a rocket using earth’s rotation to fling itself skyward. Once, through sheer stubbornness of belief, I made it a whole half-inch off the ground. Sadly, that’s my personal best.

Today, I still strain to see the stars through the city lights but my gaze has gone beyond the simple blackness and into what’s beyond. I am gripped with a longing nearly unparalleled and a desperate curiosity when I let my imagination drift upwards. All respects to Earth, I would cast off everything for chance to walk among the stars.

These thoughts and desires fall down to me, dropped into my head from what seems like elsewhere. Driving along the highway at night, I spot the brightest of the stars through the flood lamps and before I know it I’m drifting into other lanes of traffic; distracted to the point of negligence. I have become increasingly impatient with my life. Increasingly ready to throw my hands in the air and everything with it. Increasingly needful of change, curiosity, adventure. And, at this point, the grandest adventure would be up.

I watch The Doctor not with rose-colored, smitten eyes, but with eyes turned green from envy. The opportunity! All those worlds, all those people. None of whom know my name. None of whom know me. To lift off to the exhilarating zchruoosh, zchruoosh, zshree, zshree, to discover, to explore, to finally satiate that hungry curiosity, to just…leave. Yes, I watch with deep, deep envy.

So, if you see the blue box let me know. I have plans to hitch a ride.

Who You Callin "Ma'am"?

Excuse me, but when did I become a “Ma’am”? I’m 23 for hell’s sake, I’m not married, do not have children and am still in college. I’ll be damned if I think of myself as an adult. Shit, if I am an adult then I’m in trouble. I’m just a big kid playing House.

So- what is it that makes grocery store boys call me “Ma’am” and strangers on the street stop me with, “Um, Ma’am-“ ? Is it the clothes? The hair? The conspicuously-studious eye glasses? No, I know, it’s the walk, isn’t it? Or, the car??

I want to know when I crossed over from “Miss” to “Ma’am”. It’s like a lingering effect of puberty. I think I want to appeal.

Interweb: Jonesy. Jonesy: Interweb

This blog is just a personal microphone attached to an infinite volume control, we all realize that, right? A (generally) uninhibited ticker-tape of an internal voice that is usually shushed. Yes? Alright, then.

I guess then it’s time to introduce Jonesy. Jonesy is my internal voice. Not an alter-ego, but “another” ego. Jonesy is that little driver in my head that commands from the helm, steers the ship, runs the errands, keeps the records, works on the machinery and does any other odd job that needs taking care of “up there”.

(I know the description used above is rather nautical, but I prefer to think of the ship of more the space-faring quality and less the water-logged quality.)

“Jonesy, look sharp! We have guests”.

Jonesy is androgynous- kinda. It’s not that I don’t identify as being female and a woman, because I do, it’s just that most of what goes on inside my head is genderless. In other words, the jobs that Jonsey does aren’t inherently linked to gender roles in my eyes. Therefore, Jonesy is either male or female depending on my mood, or locale, or dream. Sex is static, gender should be fluid. Oh- I digress. I’ll refer to Jonesy as “she” for sake of this discussion.

Jonsey runs a lot. Generally in a hurry, she rushes about in my head, picking up files, dropping off files (dropping files), sweeping extra files into a corner, filing the files… her M.O. is trying to be everywhere at once and only being able to be in one place at a time. Like me.

You may have noticed I refer to “files”. Yes, my head is analog. I also picture the inside of my head as a giant, dimly lit system of shelves. Not unlike a library. Jonsey oftentimes employs a dolly cart to pile the files she’s currently toting.

I provide this introduction so that when I refer to “Jonesy” we’re not thinking of some flesh-and-blood resident of my life. Thus, let it be known that sometimes it will be me, Anna, talking while other times it will be Jonesy. I don’t know if Jonesy will make it known that it is her and not me, though…

Digital May Be Sex, But Analog Is Romance

I am an odd kind of techy. I revel in Sci-Fi, delight in gadgets, curiously pick over wiring and deeply inhale that warm, metallic, airy fuzz that hangs in server rooms. This is energizing! This is awakening! This is change in the making! Give me more, give me new, give me different. Hook me up, plus me in, log me on. But keep me away from those damn MP3s.

"Saay, whaa-?"

You heard me. I suppose now is a good time to confess I've never owned an iPod.

"But, those are so convenient, so sleek, so... techy!" Meh.

I love technology for the quality. Electricity is brighter than candles. Internal combustion is faster than steam. But don't anyone try tell me that MP3s are better than- well, anything.

I am in love with Bob Dylan. Most of my music preferences are from the '60s - '80s, when the hair was long, the sound was deep and the instruments were played. Why, then, would I smash Bob's sound, hollow out his voice and thin his notes through an MP3? Why indeed.

Thus, I've recently entered a new relationship with vinyl. "Hullo, luv, did you miss me?" (I mentioned this to my coworker. He looked at me blankly and asked if I'd heard of iTunes.)

Yes, analog is bulky. Yes, analog takes time. Yes, analog is now hard to find and difficult to maintain. But those are labors of love that deal out so much reward.

I decided to rebuild my Bob Dylan collection completely on vinyl. From the ground up, I will acquire each album in the order that they were released. I am determined to experience his music in the manner that he intended: with each song in the order it was recorded and as a collective. I want to hear these songs in their fullness, literally.

Vinyl is a tangible material (well, so are CDs, but that's another blog) and it is resonant. When a blank record is cut, the tiny knife bumps around in minuscule zig-zag motions, building frequency into the vinyl. These details, this richness, this fullness is missing from our digital world. MP3s screech and wail in their one-dimensional recording. Vinyl bellows and swoons. No, pardon, I swoon.

You see, analog may not be able to keep pace with the fashionista digital music world, but with what digital has gained in portability and in diminished price and shelf-space, it has lost in character and quality. You may argue about the infamous "noise" in the vinyl- the scratches that interfere with the sound. I will not deny these are enemies of vinyl. But they are symptoms of poorly cared for vinyl, not the medium itself.

It is more than a desire to hear good sound, it is a hobby. Well, one might say obsession. Vinyl takes dedication, patience, trial and error, education. You cannot set up a turntable system without some education. The nature of the analog world requires one to slow down and think about what's what. The same cannot be said for the digital music world. The world of iTunes has soiled the nature of the album. The songs were chosen in the order they were for a reason. Most of the time these albums are meant to be listened to collectively. With a record, you cannot just jump to track 5. You can if you're skilled, but even then you land somewhere in the previous song. Vinyl requires you to start at the beginning and patiently listen. No more though, with the advent of CDs and MP3s: "I don't want to pay for that whole album, I just want the song I heard on the radio. I'll just rip it!"

There is a disconnect from our music collections. People take pride in the number of songs they have. 1,000. 5,000. 10,000. Let me ask you super-collectors: do you even know what you have anymore? Do you know your music? I dare say you don't. Because you don't need to. The MP3s take up no physical space, they cost nearly nothing and they are bought on impulse and in mass quantity. The desire for the collection of MP3s is in the acquisition, and rarely for the collection itself. Just line them up on the computer and download ad nasium.

Let's get back to the root, back to the source, back to the analog. Lets rediscover our music, but more importantly, our musicians. Listen to them. Hear them. Connect with them. Build the rapport that is inevitable when we go back to the record store and talk with fellow music lovers. Build the relationship that is cherished when you know when, where and why you bought an album. If you're willing to let the music take up your time and money, let is be a physical presence in your home. Slow down, take notice and realize that the quality of a music collection comes in the time and dedication one has taken to groom it, not the sheer quantity.

Quality over quantity.

I remember the first time I sat devoted to a record. It was my father's pristine copy of Dark Side of the Moon. I'm not kidding. What a baptism! I sat rooted to the floor (no, I was not high), with these large, over-the-ear headphones on. The vinyl was clean, the needle worth flaunting, the preamp covetous. And, I was stunned. The music resonated through my skull and filled my head with a new kind of musical education. "Forget CDs!" I thought, "What dumbass ever threw out their turntable?" I was smitten.

So here, I am, lusting after the brave, new, technological world, but swooning to the tried and true.

Digital may be sex, but analog is romance.

Returns Within 30 Days With Receipt

And, Anna said, "Let there be blog". And, it was good. Or, it will be good. Or, maybe it won't. In fact, it'll probably suck. And Anna said, "Is it too late to take it back?"

Aahh, Buyer's Remorse. Am I really expected to sit here and talk? Me? I have to contend with this "narrative" thing, this "voice" thing? Yeah, I know I'm in school for English and all, but you mean I have to write as a result of that degree? Well, shit.

As the Wimpy Kid said: I'm not going to be doing any of that 'Dear Diary' crap.

Houston, we have lift off.