Rain Scattered Windows

Originally posted December 20th 2023

I have at long last, visited my local record shop. It was a cold evening, already gone dark, but the space inside was cozy and smelled of a fine incense. A shop cat merrily greeted us and the owner played Improvisions by Nookie, which I liked so much I grabbed the copy. On display was an original pressing for The Streets A Grand Don’t Come For Free, a box set of Goblin, including the Suspiria soundtrack and a whole ambient/dub section where I grabbed The River by CFCF (a concept album based on Werner Herzog's Fitzcarraldo) and Smaggie & Cross’ Offen Music 005. Embarrassed myself a little by not knowing how to work their record player, claiming “customer blindness” which got a chuckle at least.

Over the weekend I went to an art exhibition, it was a bit miserable, the installations did not inspire much thought. It seemed too much a victim of its setting, an old garage in Ridgewood, when it would have better suited a clean setting to contrast the messy fountain piece. But at the exhibition we could hear music, loud angry music, and we sought out its source. We ended up at a club called Trans-Pecos and were met by the loud thrashes of the band Massa Nera, like hardcore meets metal meets shoegaze is the best way I could describe it. A pit was immediately formed, people desperate to throw themselves about. As band members took turns screaming into the mic, the moshing of bodies, I felt myself welling up. A moment of beauty, feeling a part of the world. Sometimes I think moments like this will never happen again, and then they do. There were more bands that evening, someone Yung Lean wannabe, a few chats with strangers. Feeling both young and old, people in their early 20s excited about life, to pursue their dreams, us bitter older folks just wishing to catch a break.

I talked to a friend about settling down, not in the traditional starting a family way, just in finding somewhere to lay your roots. To find a place where you recognise the faces walking down the street, shopkeepers become friends, somewhere where one can hope to stay for a long while. And I wonder if this idea of constantly waiting for somewhere new, somewhere where I can thrive and live quietly, is holding me back from actually finding it. Because nowhere is perfect, so instead I wait. For what exactly? For rent to go down, for a better government, for a sense of security. A sense of security is likely never going to happen. Perhaps I should make myself at home where I am rather than dreaming of a new place, but in America I’ve always had the itch to leave. I don’t believe I could ever feel a sense of home here, so it’s hard to attempt it.

It feels silly to say though it’s true, if any of my friends said “Come live here with me” I’d go in a heartbeat. Because I know what I really want is a place where I can walk to the café and see a familiar face. I want to chat shit at the bus stop, to grab chips on a Friday and go to someones house and sit on their floor. To sleepily lean against a dining table as someone tells me their woes. To know how someone likes their tea or how much they detest it. Maybe one day, I will have that and this little bit of writing will be long forgotten. It’ll be a novelty to look back on this era of loneliness.

Happy Christmas to all of you who celebrate, hope it is more relaxed than not.

Thank you for reading,

Enya xx