My family is sitting in the living room watching a Batman movie. I’m not sure which one. I can tell you it’s not the Michael Keaton Batman of my youth. I’ve never cared all that much for superhero movies in general. Just not my cup of tea. But my wife and kids enjoy them, and if something makes them happy, it makes me happy.
I’m currently typing this in what we’ve come to call the music room. It’s connected to our kitchen, and the living room is right over… there. If this sounds a lot like a dining room, you’d be correct. And also incorrect, evidenced by the lack of a table or any standard dining paraphernalia. A few years ago we decided we didn’t really need a formal dining room. There’s a breakfast nook by the back door at the other end of the kitchen. It holds a small table and four chairs and suits our needs just fine for a family of four.
The music room has guitars hanging on the walls among prints of Zeppelin and Dylan and Willie and Tweedy, and other artists, alongside framed ACL Fest posters from years past and handmade paintings from the kids. A large rug sits in the middle of the floor and, yes, it really ties the room together.
There’s a long row of cube shelves filled with records and books, which I just glanced at while typing that sentence and noticed some dust that my OCD demanded I get up and clean. But I powered through and stayed seated. Dust can wait. On top of those dusty cube shelves—the kind that could have only come from a Swedish company famous for meatballs and saving you money by having you do most of the work—rests a receiver and turntable wired up to passive Klipsch speakers. A worn but comfy leather loveseat sits in front of the windows. I’m not occupying that sofa, though. I prefer the old and some might say gaudy floral-patterned armchair by the sound system, easily within reach of the headphones and turntable.
I’ve listened to it a thousand times and I’ll listen a thousand more if I’m lucky, but Kind of Blue by Miles Davis is currently spinning, the notes drifting into my open-back Sennheisers that I bought refurbished because I wanted a good pair of cans but couldn’t justify spending the money on brand-new ones. I’m happy with the purchase.
The chair and the sofa both came from my parents when they moved to New Mexico a few years back. In fact, a lot of the things in this room are hand-me-downs. Like most of the vinyl. And the small bar that used to belong to my parents as well, or at least that’s what it was designed to be. A bar. Since I quit drinking a few years back, it doesn’t hold much liquor in the interior compartment these days. The top doesn’t display bottles or shakers or ice buckets, but a small, what I guess you could call altar, for lack of a better word.
There’s a Buddha statue up there, eyelids half open, gazing softly into the middle-distance. A photograph of Thích Nhất Hạnh with a quote reminding us to breathe and smile and live in the present moment—the only moment—sits nearby, alongside a small singing bowl. In front of Buddha rests an incense burner where a stick of nag champa lazily sends smoke drifting across the room, spiraling and dancing in the constant light draft of an older home that’s never had the windows or doors updated. A couple of meditation pillows are stacked atop a barstool in the corner. The barstool came from either my mom’s or my sister’s house. I honestly can’t remember.
The last piece of furniture in this room, though, I know exactly where it came from. I’ve known it for as long as I’ve been old enough to notice such things, seeing it every time we’d visit my grandparents in Houston and later Corpus Christi. For many decades the heavy wood dresser sat in their bedroom. After my grandmother passed and my grandfather sold the house and moved into a small apartment in a retirement community, he had to downsize, and we ended up with this beautiful, if perhaps outdated dresser… though I much prefer the word vintage to outdated. He’s gone now too, and though I try not to build too much attachment to possessions, I genuinely enjoy being reminded of him as I make my coffee each morning and tea each night.
The dresser used to have a large mirror resting atop it, but that piece disappeared somewhere along the way. So now it’s just the base with the drawers. Instead of holding neatly folded socks and underwear and slacks as it did most of its life, the drawers are now home to kitchen gadgets that aren’t used daily. One drawer is full of coffee cups. And by full, I mean full. I’m not sure why a family of four needs something like twenty coffee mugs. Even when we entertain it still seems like overkill. But I suppose that’s one of those things that proves you’ve survived long enough and traveled far enough to have a drawer of proof. State mottos. Military crests. Inspirational quotes and cheesy jokes painted on bone-colored ceramic.
The dresser—which I assume furniture nerds might now call a sideboard or buffet, based on its current use—holds a lamp, a coffee maker, and a tea kettle on top. And another record crate, this one reserved for jazz. Mostly Davis, Coltrane, Duke, Ella, Monk, Peterson, Burke, and Mingus. A few modern albums too, like the excellent Concentrik Quartet by Nels Cline.
Speaking of jazz, “Blue in Green,” my favorite track on Kind of Blue, has just played its final notes. Let’s see if I completely lose my train of thought as I flip record to side B.
Once, a couple years ago, I was in a famous record store in downtown Austin, perusing the bargain bins. I found a couple of cool Thelonious Monk pressings, and when I went to pay, the clerk—a character straight out of High Fidelity—asked me what my favorite jazz album of all time was. It sounded more like a test than friendly banter. Since I’m not in the habit of trying to impress Jack Black lookalikes when there’s a line of people behind me, or really ever, instead of naming some obscure recording from 1942 that can only be found by seeking out a one-armed Russian upright bass player in a dank, smoky Greenwich Village basement or whatever, I answered honestly, “Kind of Blue.”
Of course I got the snarky response I was expecting.
“Ah… yeah. You, uh, do know that’s the best-selling jazz album of all time, right?”
As if that bit of trivia was supposed to fill me with shame and embarrassment.
Instead, I smiled and said, “Yeah, I know. And I’m guessing that’s not because it sucks, is it Barry?”
The girl working behind the counter had to cover her mouth to avoid spitting the Diet Coke she’d just taken a swig of onto the counter as she laughed. The snarky clerk looked mildly annoyed, so I took that as a win, grabbed my new-old vinyl, and left. It’s important to appreciate small victories where you can get them.
You know what? When I sat down to write tonight, I had zero intention of doing something as mundane as describing a room or recounting an encounter with a record store employee who music knowledge like a competitive sport. Nope. I intended to write about the comfort and joy that comes with being with the people you love most in the world. Even if being with them in this case means sitting one room over, typing away on a laptop, listening to a record I’ve heard more times than I can count, while they watch a Batman movie in the next room.
The open-back headphones let sound drift through. I can hear Batman beating the shit out of people and for some reason only speaking in “loud whispers.” I can also hear my wife and kids laughing or making jokes occasionally. I love it. Just being near them.
We’re only a couple of weeks from Christmas. It’s cold out tonight—not just “cold for Central Texas” but actually below freezing. But the house is warm and smells nice, and I’m feeling grateful and there’s really nothing I need in the world. When I was a kid, my favorite holiday— like most kids I assume—was Christmas. Back when ranking holidays was a thing. There were years in my late twenties and early thirties when I pretended not to like it so much, when I railed against rampant consumerism and corporate profit seasons. But like most people, I’ve relaxed with age and children. Sitting here now, closer to fifty than forty, I have no problem admitting how much I love this time of year. Those other, more hyper-capitalistic modern parts are still a little annoying, sure. But the parts that matter. Family. Tradition. That’s what matters.
This Christmas carries a little melancholy. It will likely be the last one with all four of us living under the same roof. My son is set to graduate high school and has plans that don’t involve living at home with his parents. My daughter is only twelve, so we aren’t quite empty nesters yet, but that day is coming. I do my best to follow Thầy’s advice and stay present, to enjoy these moments when all four of us are together.
That’s what I intended to write about tonight. But as so often happens with intentions, I got sidetracked. And that’s okay. Because this is honestly my favorite kind of writing. Not the structured, research-driven history or political pieces. Not the poems, with their attention to line breaks, rhythm, and the quiet internal negotiations they require. But just sitting down at a keyboard with a loose plan, or no plan at all, and typing to see what comes out. A kind of meditation in motion. I don’t have to worry about whether it’s good. Or whether an editor will accept it. Most of the time I don’t even post these late-night explorations in wandering prose. And when I do hit publish, I’m perfectly comfortable knowing it’s entirely possible no one will ever read them.
Or maybe somebody will read it decades from now—assuming this blog post still exists in some form or another—after I’m long gone and say to her brother, “Hey, I think I remember that night. Why the hell didn’t Dad like superhero movies anyway?”
Sorry, kids, but some mysteries just aren’t meant to be solved. Love you guys : )
The Truth About Tigers 