Tuesday’s Mental Jukebox

Free AI web copilot to create summaries, insights and extended knowledge, download it at here

1212

Abstract

feelings. And as I consider if teenage boys can ever have raw emotions, some Dashboard Confessional song starts and I remember why girls love boys who can play guitar and write poetry.I am half of that, and so “Creep” by Stone Temple Pilots begins, “I’m half the man I used to be” because at this moment, on a lunch break, I am lost in what it means to be a man. My soundtrack skipping from hard rock to soft pop and as the day winds down I am desperate for something loud, Metallica turned up to 20 in my ear lobes, or the political rage of a Dead Prez rap with the windows down as if I am some activist only protesting my own thoughts.At home, I kiss my wife who kisses me back harder and longer, and now Marvin Gaye and Ginuwine and a sultry Rihanna song cause me to freeze. Before I ask if we can sneak off to the bedroom, my daughter runs up to me, hugs my leg tightly as if I had never crushed her spirit. “I’m sorry for speaking unkindly,” I tell her. She reassures me with “that’s okay” and implores me to play with dolls or read her favorite book and now my soundtrack has changed moods completely as that song from Moana plays over and over and o

Options

ver.We eat dinner as a family. Giggles and teasing jokes and talks about how the day has been, hard but manageable, and some jazz hums in the background. Pleasant just like the meal my wife has prepared. Maybe it’s Coltrane or something lighter and more modern. She prefers Norah Jones.Sometime later, I tuck the girls in and kiss my wife goodnight. I turn out the lights and lay awake to ponder the rights and wrongs of my day, my failings and missteps. Cory Asbury’s “Dear God” plays in my head and I wonder if I’ll ever be good enough. If the trying and trying will ever work in my favor. I settle my accounts with God, telling him my thoughts, letting him hear my fiery injustices. He gives a gentle squeeze of my shoulder, smiles, says “go to sleep.”And with the song's ending, the white noise of R.E.M. sleep plays. My mental jukebox closes down for the night, reshuffling discs and playlists. Tomorrow’s hump day. It goes ahead and queues up a collection of artists for the Wednesday playlist: Red Hot Chili Peppers, Taylor Swift, some old Jars of Clay, and hopefully that Marvin Gaye album gets played again. Uninterrupted this time.</article></body>

We could all use a little more Marvin Gaye

Every day my mind is mixing songs on a soundtrack.

Tuesday I woke up with “Smells Like Teen Spirit” blaring from my cortex. This grunge rhythm pushes me into a day where I can pretend to be aware of things: cars merging on the interstate, empty Mountain Dew bottles rolling around, and the last words I said to my daughter: “go back to bed now” in a voice too firm for my taste.

Around 10:00 the sun gets embarrassed and hides and “Killing Me Softly” reverberates in my head. The Fugees version, not the original, because this is what I remember from being 16 on contemplative days where the clouds matched my feelings. And as I consider if teenage boys can ever have raw emotions, some Dashboard Confessional song starts and I remember why girls love boys who can play guitar and write poetry.

I am half of that, and so “Creep” by Stone Temple Pilots begins, “I’m half the man I used to be” because at this moment, on a lunch break, I am lost in what it means to be a man. My soundtrack skipping from hard rock to soft pop and as the day winds down I am desperate for something loud, Metallica turned up to 20 in my ear lobes, or the political rage of a Dead Prez rap with the windows down as if I am some activist only protesting my own thoughts.

At home, I kiss my wife who kisses me back harder and longer, and now Marvin Gaye and Ginuwine and a sultry Rihanna song cause me to freeze. Before I ask if we can sneak off to the bedroom, my daughter runs up to me, hugs my leg tightly as if I had never crushed her spirit. “I’m sorry for speaking unkindly,” I tell her. She reassures me with “that’s okay” and implores me to play with dolls or read her favorite book and now my soundtrack has changed moods completely as that song from Moana plays over and over and over.

We eat dinner as a family. Giggles and teasing jokes and talks about how the day has been, hard but manageable, and some jazz hums in the background. Pleasant just like the meal my wife has prepared. Maybe it’s Coltrane or something lighter and more modern. She prefers Norah Jones.

Sometime later, I tuck the girls in and kiss my wife goodnight. I turn out the lights and lay awake to ponder the rights and wrongs of my day, my failings and missteps. Cory Asbury’s “Dear God” plays in my head and I wonder if I’ll ever be good enough. If the trying and trying will ever work in my favor. I settle my accounts with God, telling him my thoughts, letting him hear my fiery injustices. He gives a gentle squeeze of my shoulder, smiles, says “go to sleep.”

And with the song's ending, the white noise of R.E.M. sleep plays. My mental jukebox closes down for the night, reshuffling discs and playlists. Tomorrow’s hump day. It goes ahead and queues up a collection of artists for the Wednesday playlist: Red Hot Chili Peppers, Taylor Swift, some old Jars of Clay, and hopefully that Marvin Gaye album gets played again. Uninterrupted this time.