three words: records are love



Happy Place

There's no doubt about it, this is my happy place. Lying on the old couch, with it's worn and faded upholstery, mom mom's old records playing in the background. Despite the bright sunlight shinging through the bay window, I felt drowsy. I closed my eyes and my breathing slowed as i savoured the sweet woody smell of the insence burning nearby. I rolled onto my side and opened my eyes ever so slightly. I watched the incense smoke, mesmorised by it's fluent motions. I lay silent and still and the smoke evened out, to a single plume, going strait up until the slightst movemnt in the room sent ripples down the stream. The smoke would curl over itself, going this way and that, almost moving intune with the music. I lay like this for the whole duration of side one of Morrison Hotel. It took me ten minutes to realize the room was too quiet. I sighed and got up and walked slowly to the turntable and turned over the record. the needle lowered and i heard the familiar crackle you can only get from records. I closed my eyes and basked in the nostalgic memories that always arose when i played old vynyl. This was the music i grew up on. While all my other friends listened to the spice girls or the bachstereet boys, I was playing my mom's old beatle records non-stop. I like thed Beatles were the most, just like my mom. the only difference was that when she grew up with them, they were still a band. I envied that more than anything. What I wouldnt give to have been able to see them live, or broadcast on Edsullivan, or to have heard their free rooftop concert. No use wishing and hoping for impossibilities like that. I went back to staring at the incense and the all my feelings were replaced by a dreamlike stupour. Yes, this was my happy place.



Words by dre
Read 735 times
Written on 2007-10-16 at 03:42

Tags Incense  Music  Happy 

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