Brainshambles

My first bedroom had blue/green carpet, yellow walls, and clown decor. I remember only three specific images from this room in my first house on Saratoga. One pillowcase (It had a big droopy dog on the front). One plastic clown lamp next to my bed. And one 10 gallon fish tank. Also from this time period, I remember the smell of Listerine, the yellow colored, “anti-septic” variety.

In my second home, I remember the attic most vividly. It was my father’s music studio for most of the years (but later became my bedroom).

I remember playing “librarian” with what probably was, the world’s first computer. It came in a big plastic box. The screen was small, black and orange when powered on. When my dad wasn’t making music, I’d set it up in his studio and plunk away on the huge, clickety-clackety keys. I’d grab books (Stephen King – I only remember Stephen King?) from the dusty shelf and pretend to check them in and out on this prehistoric machine.

I remember playing in a crawlspace by myself, lit by one dim bulb (the kind you turn on with the pull of a string). I loved dolls, but was terrified of them at night – so they lived in my crawlspace, where we would play during the day. I remember writing little notes all over those walls. I wonder if the people who live there now have read them?

If I close my eyes and breathe deep, I can still smell or almost taste the velvet lined guitar case. It held the most beautiful blue electric guitar. I’ll never be able to forget the smell. Guitar picks. Chess pieces. Guitar picks, chess pieces, and metal bottle caps. My attic. Our creative space.

A few years later, I’d ask him over and over to play “Message In A Bottle” by The Police. On repeat. Play it again. Play it again…except this time we were in a new house, with a different family, in a basement “studio”. I don’t know why I liked that song so much. I even had a new crawl space where I would write notes, but during these years, I shared it with a step-sister. We spent hours in there. In darkness, writing things all over walls that would never be seen.

In the last house of my childhood and teenage years, everything was bigger. Whiter. Fancier. Different. But bigger. The goods were bigger, the bads were bigger. There was less darkness, but more solitude. I scribbled a few notes in my bedroom closet, but these walls were painted stark white. People could see them. When I’d get home from school, we’d have a few hours alone. I’d plunk away on real piano keys (my grandfather’s Wurlitzer) as well as computer keyboards. I became a blogger. Everything grew, thoughts continued to swell, and I continued to publish them (on paper, on screen, even eventually, on stage).

And now I am here. With these two little girls. What will they remember? What can I help them never-need-to-forget?