It wasn’t until the turn of my twenty-third birthday that I realized how unequivocally devoted to music I was.  There’s nothing better than holding a record in your hands, taking the care to remove any dust, hairs, or fuzz, and placing the needle within one those first few grooves.  The entire process is satisfying…even the pops and hisses that emerge unexpectedly and threaten to widen with age.  ‘Cause that’s life, right?  Persistence plaguing degradation.  My daily meditation.

I didn’t used to collect physical copies of my favorite albums. I kept them in a large digital library so I could easily search, organize, catalogue, and archive my files.  I was always finding live performances on YouTube and seeking out lesser known artists whose main form of publicity was from small music blogs or self-published works.  The internet is a wonder.  I love it and continue to use it for research and free-range exploration.

When I began collecting records, I realized the full weight (literally) of my love for music.  I began to see my connection to the physical world in new ways.  I craved the touch of those cardstock covers that always felt as soft as cotton.  I wanted to protect them from their inevitable entropic demise.  I imagined the cuts eroding…slow enough that their voices echoed in the canyons they were becoming.

I needed a better organizational system for my music catalogue.  I began to organize my records alphabetically, and roughly subcategorized by genre and date of release.

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