My music sleeps in a white binder that is falling apart.
I've had it for years. It's been carried through Chicago and New York and Chicago again.
The front cover is one of those where you can insert a page or a picture. Mine holds the photo and resume of my mom's mom and a picture of my parents so that I have my musical genetics with me at all times (I keep meaning to put something of my grandfather's in there). The back cover has this Queen Victoria cartoon my mom gave me one day, and there's an old guest pass from when Equity was in the CPS building that I think has become permanently attached.
Songs have come and gone, but I've stuffed more and more pages into that book... and I've noticed a few times that it's showing its age. But until just now, sitting here thinking about replacing it, I never realized how much it means to me that it's been with me through my whole post-college (maybe even some of college?) life. Take an already sentimental person, and hand them an object that's literally been in their arms through so many emotional peaks. Toss in a little stage superstition, too. And I'm suddenly thinking of space age duct tape and a book that wears its battle wounds rather than facing the black hole of a garbage chute.
It's funny sometimes how the casual thought of replacing something can bring on a flood of memories and attachment and an entire blog entry. But I think maybe some of you out there can understand how between those two flaps of plastic, I've built the library of songs that make up my life. I think a little part of me lives in that library, too, and I don't think I'm quite ready to relocate just yet.
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