02.12.2011 
flippedpancake: I grew up turning these. Wearing over sized head phones, and holding them in place over my small ears with my small hands; they were heavy. I remember swinging my feet off the little black, round seat; I remember that it swiveled. I remember the microphone being out of my reach and wanting to touch the cushioning that protected it. I remember the feel of my hair against my face, as the headphones rubbed against it. I remember pressing different buttons in that, when pressed, would stay in. And pressing others that would always, faithfully pop out. I remember sliding colorful others along tracks, making them line up to form a hill-a zigzag of colors and slides-and then quickly, with both hands, gathering them back down as far as they’d go before sliding them back up, where i’d rearrange them and line them up a dozen times more. I remember watching the reels turn and hearing my dad time their changes. The clack of a button and they’d stop. Turn, clack. Stop. Each track repeated over and over as my dad cut the music into place. I remember the pauses between the stops where he’d sit with his razor and his eye to the tape, and cut and tape and with a clack the reels would turn and the track would play. Turn, clack. Stop. I remember hearing these while looking at the buttons. And these, I remember turning these. And yet, I haven’t the faintest idea what they do aside from their remarkable ability to recall a flood of moments. Moments with my father, in our basement, as he literally compiled sounds into music. 

flippedpancake:

I grew up turning these. Wearing over sized head phones, and holding them in place over my small ears with my small hands; they were heavy. I remember swinging my feet off the little black, round seat; I remember that it swiveled. I remember the microphone being out of my reach and wanting to touch the cushioning that protected it. I remember the feel of my hair against my face, as the headphones rubbed against it. I remember pressing different buttons in that, when pressed, would stay in. And pressing others that would always, faithfully pop out. I remember sliding colorful others along tracks, making them line up to form a hill-a zigzag of colors and slides-and then quickly, with both hands, gathering them back down as far as they’d go before sliding them back up, where i’d rearrange them and line them up a dozen times more. I remember watching the reels turn and hearing my dad time their changes. The clack of a button and they’d stop. Turn, clack. Stop. Each track repeated over and over as my dad cut the music into place. I remember the pauses between the stops where he’d sit with his razor and his eye to the tape, and cut and tape and with a clack the reels would turn and the track would play. Turn, clack. Stop. I remember hearing these while looking at the buttons. And these, I remember turning these. And yet, I haven’t the faintest idea what they do aside from their remarkable ability to recall a flood of moments. Moments with my father, in our basement, as he literally compiled sounds into music. 

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