It's nice down here.
It's as quiet as quiet gets.
The steady hum of the hot water heater. The rattling of the pipes. The creaking of wooden floors beneath tiny, invisible footsteps.
I like that sound.
I like it because it keeps the moment alive.
Fizzling away like the last pixel of digital snow on an old black and white television, sucked into one minuscule dot.
It's hard to write about my family these days.
I want to. Trust me I do.
I want you to know everything and nothing at the same time.
The conversations with my daughters hang in the air, waiting to be captured and bottled like fireflies. The words fall into place like Tetris pieces. They are the blogs that write themselves but never get written.
I don't want to fuck up the perfection, like a game of telephone. I don't want, "I love french toast" to become "I hate Donny Most".
Tonight when I was putting my 8 year old daughter to sleep, we laid in bed together talking about our favorite Aimee Mann songs.
She likes Aimee Mann.
She doesn't like her because of me. I just played her the CD. She figured the rest out on her own.
"Hey bud. Wait here for a sec. I want to play something for you."
"Dad. Where are you going?"
"Hang on. I'll be right back."
I ran downstairs to my old CD rack.
1000 CD's. Each of them covered in a thin film of dust.
I dashed upstairs, popped in the CD and climbed back under the covers with her.
Nose to little, button nose.
"What did you put on Daddy?"
"Wait. Just listen..."
I know exactly how I felt when I heard this album for the first time, back in 1987.
It made my heart race. It gave me chills. It made me want to run as fast and as far as I could run.
But I couldn't move.
The music froze me. That's exactly what it did to me.
Now I'm laying next to my baby girl. Nose to little, button nose and it was her turn.
I wondered, "what will the music do to her?".
There aren't enough words in the dictionary for me to write about that...