I Belong to Timer

I am having a bit of a meltdown, a new office, a new year, more or less a new life. Still mourning my old ‘just being a mom’ life, too. I tend to over-think things, and get well, sort of lost in space, ungrounded. And then, something old, really old, makes me feel like everything is new again. . . and puts my feet back on the ground.

On the ground, walking to the bus stop, 15 years old, having a bad day. Sad, lonely, misunderstood, my best friend is too busy to listen, so I head to the Wax Museum record store on Lake Street, determined to buy another Laura Nyro album. My parents don’t like me taking the bus down Lake Street, they think this is a bad neighborhood, but they don’t forbid me, or anything like that.

When I wear my purple velvet jeans, with all the patches that I had sewn on myself, with the little bells on a piece of rawhide leather tied onto the belt loop, my dad, who’s out raking, calls me over to him, “Theresa, don’t you have any other pants to wear?” I’m already on my way out, babysitting money in my suede purse, “But dad, I like these pants, they’re my favorite ones.” He shakes his head, picks up the rake again and I know that even if he doesn’t understand me, he still loves me. I don’t know if anyone understands me, but when I listen to Laura Nyro sing, I feel like everything will be alright.

To take the bus to the Wax Museum, I have to transfer buses on Lake and Hennepin, the busy bustling intersection that seems to be the intersection of worlds, of my world in safe Linden Hills, with the downtown world, further to the North, with the sketchy world, down Lake Street to the East, with the urban hip world, down Lake Street to the West; which leads to Lake Calhoun, and the first tier suburb of St. Louis Park. I like traveling the city by bus, by myself, and I like the Wax Museum, too.

Inside the record store it smells like incense, patchouli, and the big door jangles from the bells on it when I walk inside. The hardwood floors, and all the wooden containers full of music fill me with awe. It’s a combination of solidness, groundedness, and air, possibilities, music of all sorts, used and new. I find a Laura Nyro album (LP for long play) that I don’t own yet, and I am happy, happy to pay full price and buy it new. I find a used Joni Mitchell LP too, so that is icing on the cake. I think the clerks here are cool, a little forbidding in their hipness, mostly guys, with long hair and beads. I could have a crush on them, but they’re a bit old.

On the bus, on the ride home, I make a quick vow to myself, I will never, ever own all the Laura Nyro music in the world, so that I will always have something to count on to make me smile. When I get home, I head to my room, the batik spread on my bed, soft and colorful, I put on the new music, my friend calls me back, and now has time to listen. It’s all ok again. I have a lot of Laura Nyro music, I still love her rocketing voice and crazy lyrics. Today I found a new version of her song, Timer, a live, rowdy version, that is available on itunes, for 99 cents; I once again become grounded, and feel like everything will be ok, and there’s still Laura Nyro music I don’t own.