Flipping the Record Over
I gotta say, the amount of terrible things that happen in and in the name of the United States makes this project feel silly sometimes. But, I think, for me, it is also a way of dealing with the overwhelming badness and reaffirming what those whose power is built from terror and misery would like you to forget—being alive is cool as hell, and every life (actual life, of the people out here with us) is wildly precious. That, it turns out, is kind of what the thing I was writing this week was about, anyway.
Last weekend, we went up to the woods of New Hampshire with a few friends. It rained—biblically—the entire time. So, aside from a few walks to the lake between downpours, we spent most of our days hanging around the kitchen table and putting a 750-piece puzzle together.
The house was absolutely enormous—the type of place where, in the summer, 15 of your closest family members come. It was also full of stuff, including a hodge-podge collection of records—some decent (Johnny Cash, The Supremes), others confusing (Hawaiian medley, something called “Background Music for Conversations”)—and record player.
My friend’s young son was mesmerized by it. He’d come with me and help when the record needed to be flipped, me picking him up so he could press the switch and lower the needle. Eventually, I didn’t even have to call him over—as soon as the record fell silent, he’d appear, pointing toward our shared task.
I loved it, suddenly seeing this mundane thing anew. That something I’d take for granted could be a source of wonder. A few times, he’d come over and reach up with his little arms, asking to be lifted just so he could watch the record spin.