Caught in the Carousel

I blame Will for the fact that I obsessively and completely and perfectly get crushes on albums. And when I say crushes, I mean full-life-interfering, body-flat-on-the-dusty-hardwood-floor, blurred-vision-heart-hot-and-sweaty crushes.

Will was a boy I knew in high school. His face was moonlike and freckled. He was happy and sad like the best British pop song. The first time I met him, his bangs were stuck sweaty to his forehead. He was best friends with my first real boyfriend, and Will sang his love to me in secret with mix tapes and new CDs he left in my locker. I was stupid and careless with him, crying my heart heavy and all over him, about a boy I didn't even like that much. But my boyfriend was two years older than me. And he was beautiful. He looked like a movie. His hair was dark. His skin was pale and perfect. He wore a man's jacket. It was long and gray. He was tall and loose-limbed and could reach his hands up, placing his palms on the low hallway ceilings. He told me I was a good kisser and I believed him. He was the kind of boy I always wanted to fall for.

The Pixies

Will listened to me go on and on about him, late at night, over the phone, then he stopped me with a joke, something he had made up that never quite made sense. But I would laugh, sincerely, because of his earnestness. Then we'd turn on our radios and talk about music. He bought me my first Pixies CD, and I let him borrow my father's old country records. On New Year's Day, we stayed on the phone for 7 hours, listening to the college radio station to see if our favorite songs made the year-end countdown. I barely slept because of Will. His voice became a whisper and mine scratchy, as we talked late into the night--late until my mom came tapping on my bedroom door, scaring me into hanging up. After, I'd plug in my earphones, and listen over and over and over to his latest gift. I memorized the music, rewinding again and again until I could make out each word. I read every inch of the liner notes--wondered about the people in the dedications, vowed to buy every album put out by the label smart enough to sign this band. I dreamed of living in the band's hometown. I listened loud and seriously, and I had to press my fingers into my body just to make it through certain parts of the music. Sometimes, even the fastest drums were so sad. It was too much.

In the morning, I photocopied the CD cover and used it as stationary to write a thank you note to Will, filling it with the minutiae of my latest obsession. I ended the note with flowery-salty girl things, pictures of animals with large-beating hearts, and a knock-knock joke.

The Pixies

Now that's how I fall.

I fall hard for my favorite albums. And it really is crushing. The real crushes are like falling in love. The albums become perfect, even in their imperfections. A crack in the lead singer's voice, like grey hairs woven through splendid and inky black curls. A song ending too soon, like rough, calloused hands, lightly scratching my face.

I feel guilty when I leave an album for too long. Listening to something else is a betrayal. I'm cheating and awful, and I become overwhelmed. But eventually I do crush on something else, and the thrill of discovery...well, it's lovely.

But I always come back. New crushes come. Some last and help me find new sadness and joy, and some are just fun to dance to, but I never let go of the old ones. And I do have a desert island crush, an old crush, a true love, the one I would take with me, leaving behind all the others, to live with forever on this lonely, green island. We will drink coconut water, burn our shoulders in the hot sun, and sleep in the day, so we can love and run all through moonlight.

Then we we'll turn the volume to 10, and we will listen.

The Pixies

Logo for our New Crush series is courtesy Andy McNally.

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