Letting Go

I have a recurring dream. There doesn't see to be a common trigger, and the dream takes two forms-- one has my grandmother in it. The other, my dog from childhood, Dusty. Yeah, it's a little strange that my dog & grandmother could be interchangeable, especially given the level of emotion associated with the dream, but...

Dusty was a sweet-tempered mutt, mostly English setter, with a white skunk-stripe running up his black muzzle and forehead, and brown eyebrows gave him a perpetually quizzical expression. He lived to be 14, around which time he started to be unable to keep control of his "functions" overnight, and would have accidents in the kitchen. We would come down in the morning, and he would be absolutely miserable with guilt (even though we of course would never punish him for something he couldn't help). He got worse & worse, and eventually we decided to put him down.

My Gram was my outdoorsy grandmother, my Mom's mom. She used to tell me all about her Scottish grandparents, and how much she would like to have seen where they grew up--- and I like to think my own trip to Scotland a year and a half ago was fulfilling her wish by proxy. Several of my mom's cousins say how much I remind them of her, and if it's true, nothing could make me prouder-- she was an amazing, smart, warm, compassionate, and strong woman. She had what was probably alzheimers later in life, and her mind failed to the point where she didn't even recognize us anymore. Before it got that bad, it was actually worse-- she had moments of clarity where she knew what was happening to her and would beg my mother, terrified, to help her.

Anyway, the dream. In the dream, one or the other (Dusty or Gram) is alive again. Not in that "this is all perfectly normal" dream-acceptance kind of way. In the dream I know that they are supposed to be dead. But alive again they are, healthy & vibrant, and I am filled with joy. I rough-house in the yard with Dusty, playing with the soft fur on his floppy ears like I did as a child. Or, I take walks with my grandmother; she identifies plants & birds for me like when I was in high school.

My joy is short-lived. I become aware with deadly certainty that I have a choice to make. I can let them go now, and they will just quietly cease to exist again, their "real" life being the only one that ever happened. Or I can keep them with me; they'll stay alive this second time, but will have to live... and die... just as they did in the first. Their bodies & minds will fail as they did in real life. Again.

I always make the same choice in the dream. I always choose to let them go, rather than watch them suffer all over again in trade for more time together. But it always breaks my heart. I sob bitterly in the dream as I give them up, and wake up feeling the loss all over again.

My Earthly Pleasures

Yes, I finally gave myself the treat of that trip to BullMoose on Saturday. (Well, first I lay around the house, after JR and Antoine departed their whirlwind stopover at "Chez K", bemoaning the return of the heat yet stubbornly refusing to put the air conditioner back on. THEN I summoned enough energy to drag myself to Portsmouth.) So, the purchases, in alphabetical order by artist:

• Fields, Everything Last Winter
• Maximo Park, Our Earthly Pleasures
• The Polyphonic Spree, The Fragile Army
• Spoon, Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga
• Wilco, Sky Blue Sky

The ritual... what? Karen, a ritual, NO! (I hear you Michaela.) Yes... Drive I95 to Portsmouth, the fastest, most direct route. Park in the garage, and walk to the promised land. Promptly become overwhelmed by vastness of selection, unknown artist blasting overhead, and impossibly beautiful record store boys. (And, alas, they ARE boys, but so cute with their vintage look shirts and carefully careless mops of hair.) Wander the bins, settling in, pulling out all the potential candidates. Shuffling the stack, trying to do math in my head, and making choices based on arbitrary factors like cover art, random song titles, and general whim. Now make my way through checkout, and walk back to garage clutching the prizes, pondering the next big question-- which one to listen to first? Which will grace the beginning of the trip home? The trip home, which is undertaken now not by way of the speedy I95, but down route 1A-- meandering along the shore line and marshes. A pretty ride but also an excuse to listen longer.

So it's Spoon that's first in queue, despite having quite possibly the worst album title EVER. Not exactly what I expected. A little edgier, less accessible... which is not a bad thing, just means it won't be the one I latch onto first. Instead it will be the slow burn that could grab me unawares when I least expect it. Pass a scenic overlook and swap out to Fields. Lush and swirling. Harmonies. Orchestration. Sigh with satisfaction. Then swap out again... and oh god, the immediate choke hold. Maximo Park. I couldn't even remember what snippet put it on The List, but the risk was worth it, this is the one. The one I will be listening to non-stop until I wear myself out and sneak back apologetically to the other purchases to begin letting them in too, bit by bit. Poppy and raw all at the same time and really, can anyone write lyrics like the Brits?

Find me an American band that rhymes hypothetical, alphabetical, theoretical, and dialectical in a refrain so catchy you have to sing along.

Go ahead, I dare you.