Static and Soundtracks

Five weeks ago, life was rich with color and bright with sound – high resolution. Then, that Friday night, my screen turned to static. All of the pixels are still there – but the picture, the color, the sound was lost. Life is static now.

In painful but clear moments, I will have flashbacks to our time together. However in general, it's been very hard for me to remember much. It's as if the trauma of that night caused amnesia, and now I'm left only with bewilderingly hazy memories. I want to remember all of you. I want to remember every breath, every word we said, every time we held hands, and every kiss we shared – but I can't. Like the static screen of an old television that needs its antennas fiddled with, I only get blips and blurry images that pop in for a second or two.

My flashes of memories come and go, and are often onset by my surroundings – sights, sounds, songs, smells, signs. Here's some breaks from the static:

Today as I drove between Desmoine and Chicago I witnessed hoards of mediocre-at-best drivers making their cross-country trips to spend the holiday with family. As I judged and cringed, I remembered my first time driving to your house in Vail. I was at the wheel with you seated shotgun. You lived in Vail for many years so you were very comfortable with the roads, unlike myself. I exited Interstate 70, turned left to cross the highway, and made my way into West Vail. I noticed something strange ahead of me – a... roundabout. Hmmm. What ever do I do here? You, always patient and never curse, said nothing just motioned 'onward'. I did not yield, despite signs. I pulled all the way into the inner lane immediately. The car behind me laid on his horn. I slammed on the breaks, horrified, then swerved into the right lane to make my exit, without a turn signal. My heart slamming, I looked at you in panic. You gave me a funny look – wide-eyed, slight fear, kind of embarrassed to be seen with me, and humor. You said warmly, "Well sweetheart, the good news is, you made every possible roundabout mistake all at once right there, so you can only get better!" I have gotten better. But every time I drive into one for the rest of my life, I will remember that incident.

After moving to Colorado a year ago this week, I got a new car. I'd sold my house in Austin for a good profit and had recently gotten my dream job as the Creative Director of my favorite magazine. I'd had my 2000 Honda CRV since I was in college and had bought it from my parents for $1. So when I was car shopping in Boulder last year, it was essentially the first time for me to choose a car – and I was pysched. I chose a luxury car with more bells and whistles than I knew how to contend with. On one of our first drives together in my new car, you sat down and started fiddling with the moonroof. "Wow, this is so big! Open it," you requested. I started pushing buttons and turning dials – a sunglass case ejected from the ceiling and the overhead lights came on – no moonroof action. You laughed at my tactic and gracefully pushed one button and it opened. Later in that drive, you asked if I knew how to set the clock – it was a few minutes fast. I did not and started pushing buttons all over the console – no clock action. You laughed again and then quickly figured it. We sat in silence for a few minutes as I drove, feeling slightly incompetent. "Do you want to know what I have figured out though?" I asked. "What's that?" you responded. I turned up the music to show you. "I learned how to turn the bass ALL THE WAY UP," I answered, bass pounding. You cracked up and with only a hint of an eye roll answered, "Priorities."

You always thought I'd be interested in how cars work. I am not. I know I like a nice and comfortable one, but I couldn't be less interested in how they move. "There are so many more interesting things I'd rather learn," I'd tell you when you started talking about pistons. "Let's talk about another kind of piston..." I'd joke as you tried to explain. I can add gas and oil. I recently learned how to add windshield wiper fluid. I now know how to open the moonroof. The bass and treble are fantastically unbalanced. And I can read the manual when my bossy car tells me it needs something. So, I am basically a mechanic. I know everything I need to know. Although you continued to try to sneak car talk into conversation every so often, "It's really interesting! There's explosions!" you'd insist, tempting me with fire. It got to the point where we had a running joke about it. You would start to explain something about an intake valve and a cylinder and I'd plug my ears and look at you and say, "MAGIC! Cars go cause of MAGIC!" And that was it. Every time we decided we didn't need to know how something operated, we would blame it on magic.

As I drove my magically propelled Audi across the midwest today, I listened to your iPod – or T-Pod as you have it named. I shuffled through your ten-thousand plus songs. At one point, Patrick Lee came on. It took me back to the first time we both heard Patrick Lee. We were on our way home from Red Rocks in the back of a limo. It was my first Red Rocks show and we hadn't been dating very long – so you were still trying to impress me. (Which you didn't need to do, because you impressed me more and more every day of our time together.) But, in order to transport a good group of friends conveniently to and from the Umphrey's McGee show and avoid drunk hippies from being on the road – we all climbed into the back of the limo. About halfway home, the limo got quiet. Everyone was getting tired and coming down from the thrill of the show. As the conversation died down, we noticed the music. It was the absolute perfect melody for the moment – down-tempo electronica that still sounded man-made and had layered peaks and valleys. "Who IS this," you asked. Nate, who was manning the music, responded, "Patrick Lee."

Patrick Lee's Pacific Soul album became a staple for us from that point forward. At the end of the night, we would cuddle up downstairs on a Love Sac in the puddle room, let Kira out, and groove to Patrick Lee. You would explain certain dynamics in the music. I knew I liked it a lot, but you would help explain why. Some days we would listen to that album while driving through the mountains or maybe when we drove up to get the mail. I played it in my yoga classes a lot – the perfect groove for a flow through a vinyasa. It's the kind of music that made me feel as though I was lying on my back in a grassy meadow, with sunlight on my face, wind in my hair, your hand in mine, and warm love filling my being.

So when I was in the car today and Patrick Lee's 'Southern Cars' came on, I took a deep nostalgic breath. I let it play. As the cheerful rhythm played, I noticed how ugly it was outside. I noticed how the slushy snow looked dirty and haphazard. I noticed how the only trees that had leaves were sharp needles on conifers. I realized everything on the horizon was some shade of grey – even the dead grass along the side of the highway seemed monochromatic. The song continued to play the same melody that I'd heard so many times before during joyful moments – but this time it was different. It was as though the music was now a cruel joke, a parody. "Remember how happy this used to make you?" The music seemed to whisper taunts through a sleazy Cheshire-Cat grin and pointed eyes. I changed the song as I let my tears fall.

My soundtrack is changing. I used to tell you that I thought that The XX song 'Intro' would be my soundtrack. I'd describe how I wanted that song to automatically play from the heavens as I walked into a room. I thought it was the perfect balance of mystery, intelligence, and cool. The song no longer fits. Now, it's Pink Martini's version of 'Que Sera Sera' – haunting, sad, and full of minor chord progressions. Ominously, you always liked the song. I thought it was chilling. I still do.

Our soundtrack was more funky.

We had come back to our tent a bit early after a String Cheese show at Horning's Hideout. We were laying on our blowup mattress relaxing. We could hear people slowly making their way back into Land's End camp - but we stayed quiet, snuggled, and closed our eyes. We needed a breather. We could hear Nate setting up his DJ gear near our tent. When he turned on the speakers, the most ridiculous trumpet melody we ever had heard began to play. We both busted out laughing, breaking the silence in unison. "Yes! I love that someone actually makes this kind of music," you said. "Yes! It's awesome! And that N8tron actually mixes with it," I said. And that was how a silly remix of Bert Kaempfert's 'Africaan Beat' came the closest thing we had to a song. We would play it at the house and dance the most dorky dance around the house together. If one of us were ever in a bad mood, we could snap out of it by playing that song. We always requested Nate to play it, even when it was totally inappropriate for the setting. It made us laugh. It made us dance.

It's hard to imagine hearing playful music without a visceral rawness consuming my chest. Its hard to remember our time clearly, without my own take or exaggeration. For now I have to settle for static - and look forward to the bursts of colorful and clear memories that peek through from time to time.