something kind of Lebanese

This weekend I came into possession of an excellent used car from 1997, an American-made automatic with a sexagenarian aura, squeaky brakes, and a functioning cassette-deck. Since taking possession of the car I have driven with slow authority and the smell of old memories wafting from inside the cushions. I have avoided spilling coffee or iced tea or donut crumbs. I have refrained from crumpling burger wrappers to accrue below decks, and have not sworn.

I have not taken the car with me to play Bingo, nor have I taken it bowling, nor have I driven it into a tree or a crowd of pedestrians. I have parked with difficulty and have driven to one diner, where I did not purchase the early bird special but did wonder about teenagers these days.

Having a cassette player at hand again reminded me of the Tupperware container in the basement with the old cassettes, a smattering of four-track recordings (still unplayable), microcassette recordings of an experimental improv band I played a bit part in more than a decade ago, and mix tapes from back in the day. Opening this container offered a living lifeline to a time of great hopes and short attention, and the perfect audio backdrop for a nice afternoon drive at exactly the speed limit (or 5 to 10 miles per hour slower).

I tried the improv cassettes first but couldn't find the thread. A lot of it I found unlistenable. Others moments would verge on coming together. There was a moment where it sounded like we were right on the verge of playing something kind of Lebanese, but we never really found the right scale or mood and instead it became vaguely tribal, following a safer and less descript route, treading melodic water for a few safe minutes. A linear course or sort of commute to work that echoes my current reality now more than anything else. At the time I must have surely thought it was some Pharaoh Sanders-esque journey to interstellar regions. At the time I was under the illusion that the people I knew were destiny and everything we'd make would turn to gold without the slightest effort.

I switched to one of the mixes and started thinking of the friend who'd made it for me 20 years ago, how I couldn't wait to call her to tell her what I'd dug up. I nodded my head to the songs -- which maybe I hadn't understood at the time (or I'd thought they were fine, or whatever) but which suddenly seemed so apt, so perfectly on point, like a time capsule that would know and aptly suit the mood of the person opening it a hundred years later. I really couldn't wait to call her.

The tape flipped sides and a new song started and I realized with cruel certainty that I'd dubbed over at least half of the mix with rehearsal from the same improv group.

It felt a little like getting all drunk and stoned with your best friend to go see the Wu Tung Clan on the last night of summer, only they've cancelled due to a family emergency and have asked Tony Conrad to play in their place, and you're too drunk too leave, too stoned to stay.