Track Stylus

The record goes round and round. It’s quite amazing, actually. A 6-7 millimeter thick disc of etched PVC can take us to another world when a stylus moves through its grooves. I’ve never thought about how beautiful all that is until just this moment.

Round and round and round.

Until it reaches the end. Or the stylus is divorced from the vinyl or…

…a small etch, out of place, or the smallest spec of dust causes the stylus to remain stationary, thus resulting in the sound skipping or repeating.

When I was twelve years old, in the eighth grade, Faith No More released an album, titled The Real Thing, that my best friend and I played to death. But like some special albums, death was just as beautiful as the birth. This was in the early days of CD’s; our respective collections were small, yet eclectic (thanks to our fathers). We were in the days of recording songs from the radio, trying to get the best cut. We would also record each other’s CD’s; an option that ceases to be relevant today.

We played The Real Thing so hard that the CD began to wear in certain spots. The song Edge of the World fell victim to the wear, causing it to skip in certain places; eventually the CD would get over itself (literally) and carry on. To this day, thirty-two years later, I know where all the skips reside when I listen to the now digital compilation.

There’s enough speculation around the origins or motivation of the lyrics. Frankly, I don’t care. I have tied my own meaning to pieces; and that’s my story. Literally.

A few weeks ago I left my house on a bit of a rage run. I needed to leave my physical space to get a little lost after a crap day, with crap interactions, and a whole crap-load of in-the-crapper confidence. I’ve had these jaunts every so often - usually they’re steeped in madness and leave me breathless after some fast miles.

This time was different.

I needed to run about a half mile on a busy road to get to my destination, so I took every opportunity to raise my arms, yell profusely, or pump my fist as all the distracted drivers who stole slices of my earth. When I finally stepped off that road, the energy of the environment changed. The sounds of the approaching turnpike drowned out the sounds of the adjacent road; aside from that - I was all alone. Just me, my thoughts, and my voice.

I flipped over to Side B. Like vinyl, I went round and round, running on the edge of the world. The skies welcomed the sounds screaming from nature’s turntable.

Instead of the skies opening down onto me, I opened up to the skies. In a full fit of metal rage, I exhausted the tracks as I played them over and over again. I wore down the groove with the pounding of my feet, only to turn around to let gravity scream my body to brief silence waiting at the bottom of the hill.

I ran on the edge of the world that day; more connected to myself than I ever thought. I wore down the etch in my vinyl. My track didn’t end, rather it got remastered.

I wonder now, if a woman screams in nature, with no one around, was she even heard?