Time can march, but it can’t dance, without notice.
I had found a radio station out of France specializing in 80’s music. I set my desktop to record and would come back later and edit out the songs I didn’t want. It was the new way of recording the music off the radio with a cassette tape, like what I used to do back in high school. The songs on the CD even had the same abrupt start and stops like the cassette tapes did. There wasn’t any way to edit the DJ’s talking, the commercials, and the song overlaps. Editing is easier now, but not really worth the time.
The hits of the 80’s played for several hours across the desert roads of New Mexico, Colorado, and Utah. They kept me awake as the rest of the vehicle occupants slept. They kept me thinking.
I remember when those “classics” were “newly released titles”. The lyrics and melodies bled into thoughts of when I last or first heard them. Dances, classes, people, and drives in my parents’ 75 Oldsmobile Regency, all come back to the forefront of my thoughts almost as if they were happening right then. It’s as close to time travel as I will ever come.
At times it’s hard to pinpoint how long it has been since this or that happened. Time seems to march forward with that slow and steady pace that folds days into unrecognizable years.
Music, however, is the mile markers along the long lonesome highway that reminds you exactly where you are and where you’ve been.