CASSETTE FROM MY EX

I had forgotten about the tape. It was a meaningful gift from I boy I use to love, but I had not forgotten about it’s heart, it’s beauty, and it ‘s ability to make me feel unrepentantly giddy. In 2005 I bought a car. A 2000 silver Passat station wagon. I fell for this car hard and fast. One of its many charms was the fact that it had a tape deck. Come on, 2000, who in their right mind still put a tape deck into a new car?  All I needed in 2005 was a 10 dollar I-pod adapter and the vast world of music stored on my tiny device could flow freely in my new soccer mom worthy ride, yet I really wanted the tape player. I was thrilled.

And then there was the icing on the cake, the box of mixed tapes, stuffed somewhere in the bottom of my coat closet. After a little search and rescue, I found the archive of music from my halcyon days. Including this gem, titled, of course, as any good mixed tape must be.

It is completely homemade, the case is constructed out of cardboard, the song list incorporated into a letter, lovingly typed on yellowing paper and glued, strip by strip, sentence by sentence, onto the outside of the case. It’s filled in with indie rock typical of the era, the Replacements, the Pogues, and Bonnie “Prince” Billy. It’s true eclecticism, heartfelt earnestness, and oddball nature is a mirror of the maker.

I no longer remember if I received it in the mail or if Scott gave it to me in person. The chronology and context are a little foggy, though I am pretty sure the year was 1995. 14 years, what do you expect, whose brain hasn’t gotten a little soft. What is vivid is the love. We were head over heels in that enthusiastic generous early 20’s way. Our relationship was equally romantic, typified by leisurely long weekend visits, the exchange of handmade gifts, and dedicated letter writing campaigns, it was the mid nineties after all and people still put pen to paper. I lived in Chicago. He lived in small town New Hampshire. It was ultimately an unsustainable long distance affair that ended after about a year and a half.

Of the many objects we made for each other, this tape has remained in my possession. I still listen to it from time to time, read the sweet note collaged along its surface at a the periodic red light, and a little bit of giddiness creeps into an otherwise routine ride home from work.

Leslie Baum is a good judge of character, a daily maker of paintings.  She lives in Chicago.