Sometimes

For over twenty years I’ve had this bit of writing tucked into the back of one of my sketch books, thinking one day I would finally make a short film from it. I’ve always attributed the words to my friend Adam but it’s been so long, I'm not really sure.

When a record finishes on my turntable, the arm doesn’t go back to it’s place. Instead, there is this looping sound through the speakers; much more potent a sound than anything actually pressed onto the vinyl. Every record has it’s own unique loop; I’ve never found two that sound even similar, and I’ve never found another turntable that does quite what mine does, not in the right way at least.

Once I wrote to my best friend: “Why doesn’t she love me?” He wrote back, “Maybe she does love you.” We hadn’t written to each other in months, and we wouldn’t again for months. The next day at work I drove a hammer into my kneecap, and it hurt less than anything else ever has.

Sometimes, when my record finishes, I just let the loop run and stare out the window. If I was reading a book while the record played, I put the book down and look out the window instead. Sometimes, when I do that, it starts raining, just as soon as the record finishes. I feel like thanking somebody, but I never quite know who.