baggage's Diaryland Diary

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I don't think you have any idea how much I'm going to miss you, Shivon

"I take my heart, and lay it out before you in my song
I play my part, and hope against all hope you sing along"

-Rik Emmett

While I wasn't paying attention, the air turned chilly in that sparkling, shimmering southern California way that announces the return of Christmas and other shmaltzy holiday shenanigans.
Each year, these shenanigans pass like freeway scenery - familiar yet blurry - as if my contacts have fallen out and my glasses are out of reach. The rush of the season cause these days to fade in and out of one another and, despite my efforts to slow the pace and bring blurred moments into focus, most are gone; blurring by in a rapid succession of off ramps and speeding cars.
But, sometimes I succeed. Some moments become memories. They linger and resurface - warming and breaking the heart in ways significant and miniscule.
(Have I told you about the year I wrote my two best friends a song? I have? Well, how unfortunate that you'll have to read it again. There is no good writing folks, Just good rewriting as some literary once said).
Ahem.
In an effort to make the holiday more meaningful (and because, truth be spilled, I am a cheesy kind of guy), I wrote a song to give as a present.
It was schmaltzy; full of references to girlfriends gone by, hearts broken and mended- a cheesy, but likable tune.
And, I pored over the lyrics. This was a present after all.
I didn't have the benefit of actual recording gear at the time so the song was recorded on a cheap cassette recorder. With the help of two neighbors blessed with the gift of harmony, I recorded two takes of the song; two separate cassettes-both first generation (that was important to me. A hint of my future favorite in-the-closet role as audio snob).
I was infatuated with the results. The song came to life sounding equal parts Beatles and Everly Brothers. Listening to both versions repeatedly revealed minor differences in performance and, choosing carefully based on what I thought each would prefer, I presented the cassettes to my two bestests buddies in the entire world for Christmas.
They smiled and hugged the song as expected-thanking me for my thought, originality, creativity so on and so forth. But, the cassettes were left behind at the end of the evening. Mentioning the silly little faux pas years later drove the embarrassment even further into my ego; neither friend remembered the tune.
They could have lied, couldn't they?
Damn the sting of honesty.
The whole "Writing A Song Instead of Buying A Present to Make Christmas More Meaningful" theory pretty much died at that point. And since the memory returns almost every Christmas, clearly the cut was deep.
Danger! Self-pity dead-ahead!
I don't believe anyone in my general orbit fully realize just how much my attempts at writing music mean to me. And how can they? Why should they?
They don't hear the melodies for the musical diary that they are. They can't hear the secrets spilling in between the notes. They're not privy to all the inside jokes in the song titles, the little stabs and shout outs in the liner notes, the jokes in the illustrations. It's all in my head! Private screams in the noise of life.
My passion. Not their's.
It took a long, long time, but once I understood this, things became a little less frustrating. And simpler.
Specifically, at Christmastime.
I still give music during the holidays. And books. Meaning that, if your name is on my gift list, you'll most likely receive either literature or song for Christmas.
Just not authored by me.
I'm not much for pretty objects that occupy shelf space and gather more dust than interest-so decorative gifts are out. And I've a lot of people to shop for. Books and music seem an economical and creative way to celebrate the cliche.
Plus, in all honestly, limiting my gift-giving options in this way is much easier and less problematic than actually making - or in my case- writing a present.
This way involves handing over credit cards. The other? Well, (and sorry for the melodramatics) it means handing over a lot more than cash or credit.
And, besides, shopping for books is its own source of giddy.
Living in a university town, small book stores are aplenty-all smelling that lovely, musty smell of used and new literature breathing the same dusty air. I love old book stores-everything about them; even the stereotypical older person disheveled by their own crankiness sitting behind the counter. I especially have an affinity for that disinterested "used book store owner vibe" that practically dares DARES customers to ask for assistance.

"Uhh, excuse me..."

Cranky Book Store Owner looks up, peering from behind cold, clear lenses. Not saying a word.

"Do you have any early Irving? Setting Free The Bears? Or The Water Method Man? I know someone who thinks Irving is God and I'd love to prove her wrong by presenting some of the horribly bad literature that came early in the author's career."

"I think we might have Garp," Cranky Book Store Owner sneers in a voice that sounds equal parts Darth Vader and Phyllis Diller.

"No, no, no. Everyone likes Garp because of that foolish movie. Irving was pretty good by then. I'm looking for the bad stuff. The 158-Pound Marriage? The Hotel New Hampshire?"

"I don't believe so. Maybe you could leave a phone number?"

"OK-what about Updike? Do you have any Updike? Rabbit Run? Rabbit is Rich? Licks of Love?"

"Have you checked our fiction aisle? It's two aisles behind you."

"Well, of course, I haven't checked the fiction aisle. That would mean that I would never ever get to enjoy this stimulating conversation with such a sparkling personality."

On the other side of the book store continuum is the brand, new, shiny combination bookstore/hangout/meat-market/latte bar- smelling like an intoxicating combination of glossy stock, overdriven hormones and overpriced coffee grinds.
I'll save my thoughts on that little microcosm of humanity for next time.
And music? There are countless shopping options for music. And with all this wacky legal-downloading going on due to the genius of Apple (No-I don't work for them. Wish I did), I can shop for music and play with my 17-incher at the same time.
What was that?
You think I'm joking?
Excuse me, but the monitor on my laptop measures a proud 17-inches, baby.
Whatcha got? Monitor envy?
Heh.
Anyways, the point I was making (before my feeble attempts at literary significance were interrupted by my own cursed junior-highness) is that a fine holiday is the plan this year.
No original songs. No original short stories. No gift-wrapping of anything involving vulnerability.
Just lots of fun moments all wrapped up in a slow, focused December.

10:42 p.m. - 2005-11-16

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