C[omp]ute

From: andrew cooke <andrew@...>

Date: Sat, 30 Mar 2013 19:34:50 -0300

I was lying on the bed, listening to music, when a Lene Lovich track (Bird
Song) came up on shuffle.

That was one of the first albums I bought.  The second, I think.  I must have
heard "Lucky Number" on the radio.  I knew nothing about music - had no idea
what New Wave was.  Would not hear about Talking Heads for another couple of
years.  My first album was Chris De Burgh's Spanish Train.

I remember playing it in the lounge where we used to live (back when houses
had lounges - the "front room" that you hardly ever used).  On parents' Decca
turntable with the autochanger that clicked and clunked.  I remember the
turquoise sofa and chairs.  I remember not understanding what I was listening
to.

That room had a distinctive smell - the open fire.  It would have been a dark
evening, after school.

I was so lost.  I knew nothing.

But I don't think I was unhappy.  Now - moments ago, lying on the bed - I
wondered about going back in time and giving myself a hug.  But I don't think
I would have wanted a hug.  I don't think it worried me that I didn't
understand.  I guess I thought perhaps it would make sense later.  I guess
some of it did.

What a long, strange trip it's been (and I wouldn't listen to *them* for
another twenty years).  And yet no distance at all.  Still so much I don't
understand.

Eh.

Andrew