I spent yesterday with one of my sisters in the heart of Halifax. The heat of the day enrobed us suddenly and unexpectedly. Alas, September 29th left us feeling like July had just begun. As we waltzed through the concrete dance floors of the city, other people choreographed their own routines from a safe distance.
A young woman my age pushed a bicycle with one hand and held a melting ice cream with the other, wearing a monochromatic outfit that somehow still seemed vibrant even though it consisted of varying beiges. A man who had gone for a run was obviously unprepared for the thickness of humidity that soon made it hard for him to breathe, let alone pick up the pace. Two business men furthered their stereotype with dull, rude conversation we heard in passing, and a group of youths with matching t-shirts floated by in a chatter like a school of fish.
The day was filled with assorted activities, quality time and a sisterly comfort - akin to a box of Quality Street but just the good flavours, none of those orange créme nasties. Though many of our conversations held material that felt lowly, laughter was frequent and smiles were impenetrable. Maybe we were suppressing harsh realities or maybe we really could find the brighter side of each subject, assuming the role of modern day comediennes.
About mid-afternoon, my sister spontaneously suggested we duck into Taz Records which we had nearly passed. Turning the first corner in the store we found an abundance of cassette tapes. Picking one up in my hand we both began to smile and reminisce over the few tapes we would play and rewind for that one song until the tape was falling out and we were winding it back up with a pen or pencil. "Man, it'd be so cool to have a cassette player again." And seconds after that thought was voiced, I spotted a player just above my eye-line. Without a second thought, I knew I was going home with it. And so we began hunting through the cassettes, old and new, desperate for hidden treasures within a wall of genres and artists.
Later that evening, back home in my bedroom, I put two double 'A' batteries into the player and with some muscle memory, slid the glossy tape into its slot and pressed play. It's interesting how an uneven wavering sound immediately transported me to a more innocent and exciting part of my life. I didn't even hear a voice or lyric but the sheer textures presented to me due to imperfections on the tape made me nostalgic. Of course the quality of cassette tapes are nothing like streaming platforms where you have a personal equalizer to finely tune every sound the way you want it. Snobby audiophiles would turn their noses up at a cassette. Yet the tangible-ness of this format left me aching.
It was nice to lie in bed holding the player on my chest and feel the reels feed me the next lyric: "Oh, in no time at all, This'll be the distant past". How appropriate. Here I was, clutching a thing from my past, feeling everything a little too deeply while the future hung over me like a dreadful cloud of uncertainty. I undoubtedly needed to start figuring things out and taking a step in some direction, but all I could do in that moment was grasp the tape player a little tighter and listen to the rest of Side A.
Sometimes it's easier to look back than forward.
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