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Mix tape

Today, in the car, I put in the last tape I made for H.W.S.R.N. I did this in large part because I'd been thinking about one of the songs on it, and couldn't remember how it began.

This tape is really striking to me. The emotion. The tenderness. It begins with a recording that my mother made of me when I was six years old, reading a story that I'd written (many of you are familiar with this story, as I've put it on a great many tapes). It goes on to include a lot of kind of ethereal stuff -- Liz Phair, The Cocteau Twins (the CD that H.W.S.R.N. and I used to always listen to when we were falling asleep, though I highly doubt he remembers this), PJ Harvey (all stuff from the album "Dry," the album that so fucked with my head after Bob died, for absolutely no explainable reason).

The tape vividly reminds me of how I felt in that moment -- the intense empathy that I felt from H.W.S.R.N. for my tragedies, and the empathy that I felt for him and his. And now, all these months later, it reminds me of a visit I once had to my gynecologist (OK, I realize you may be frightened off by that sentence, but stick with me). H.W.S.R.N. and I were fighting at the time. I remember my gynecologist asking if I'd been sexually active in the last year, and I said yes, and she asked what form of protection we were using, and I replied "none."

The thing that I didn't say, but repeated over and over again inside of my head that day, was "... but I won't make that mistake again."

Now, of course, everyone knows that I did make that particular mistake again. But the difference ... the difference was that the second time around, even though my heart was ripped out and handed to me in tatters, at least I wasn't surprised by it.


So these are the things that are on my mind this evening. They are balanced by the sense that I was a giant dork when unixd0rk stopped by The Co-op tonight, and by the way that the snow on Polish Hill took my breath away when I arrived home.

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