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date: 2019-08-30
weight: 1
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<audio autoplay controls src="/miniatures/1.mp3"></audio>

I did not fall into music of my own accord, my dad bought me a saxophone.

> As his dad bought him before you.

He wanted us to be alike in so many ways.

> But you already knew that.

He got me a saxophone and he and my mom pooled resourses to get me lessons.

> And showed you to all his friends.

I played at his Christmas parties. I played at his neighbor's Christmas parties.

> Once, he was going to show you off to his friends at a barbeque, and you got so anxious and upset that you bent the octave key out of shape. You could only produce squeaks. You said it was an accident.

I did it to get out of playing for the party, and instead it got me in trouble for being careless.

> You were anything but. You were very careful. You acted with intent.

I kept playing. Sometimes it was fun, sometimes it wasn't.

> Once, you told your mom you weren't sure why she or your dad bothered with you learning to play the saxophone when all life was meaningless, anyway.

How old was I, then? Ten? Eleven?

> Dad made you apologize to her. I don't think either knew what to do with a nihilistic preteen.

But it worked, in a roundabout way. I wound up in music. I wound up playing the saxophone and even sometimes enjoying it. I moved from that to the oboe.

And not just playing. I listened to tapes until they wore out. I made mixtapes of my dad's music after he taught me how to program his six-disc CD changer. After that, it was mix CDs, which I'd listen to on the bright yellow Sport Discman I carried everywhere. I fell asleep with headphones on more than once.

Music held --- continues to hold --- this sense of mystery about it. It worked on some level below spoken language, understandable without being text, affecting emotions without the cadence of words.

> So why'd you quit?

I can't just say "computers" and beg off, here, can I?

> Nope.
