“She gathered data from churchyards. This had not been her first choice. Requiring access to natural habitats, her research had stumbled. Park-keepers were loath to let her loose in their kingdoms.
Consulting city maps, regarding the spray of green spaces marked with crosses, she had the idea. In an instant, graveyards recast themselves as secret nature reserves.
The local diocese proved immediately amenable to the enterprise.”
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With this mixtape, he would win her heart. Encircled within plastic casing: a shimmering lasso with which he would reel her in.
Their relationship, such as it stood, consisted of fleeting moments: her fringe fingered into twists distractedly. His gift would change that.
He experimented with hundreds of tracklistings, myriad attempts to coerce the finer of points of his collection into a coherent whole.
Eyes he could lose himself in if allowed.
Just as he thought he was approaching perfection, thought he had concentrated his very essence onto cassette, a new song would emerge, a recent record added to his collection that demanded inclusion. But its incorporation inevitably disrupted the flow. It could not simply be tacked on. Each new addition meant starting from scratch.
From the moment he first saw her, each encounter had been soundtracked. From his ever-expanding repertoire, a selection would be made. Alone, needles eased into grooves, songs seemed to recall her specifically.
He tried to whittle a lifetime’s vinyl into ninety minutes. He failed.
He recorded, rerecorded.
The day he saw her across town, alone, though he dare not approach. He watched her self-conscious shuffle from a distance. Only a prior engagement drew him away.
He fast-forwarded, pictured them living blissfully, looking back over a long life together. On special occasions, anniversaries, they would sit and listen to his mix.
He heard rumours of relationships. Nothing confirmed. He would proceed.
It opened with a declarative fanfare, a statement of intent. It was the one aspect that hadn’t changed, a blistering riff undiminished.
What followed was subject to ruthless scrutiny, each song vetted for merit. He attempted to assemble a seamless flow of chosen moments.
Her perfume smelt once and then again forever.
He lost himself in repetition.
Hours turned to days turned to weeks turned to months.
It was an act of exposure. He would reveal himself to her through the words of others. Co-opted pop would give voice to his emotions.
He knew her voice only from afar.
Technologies progressed whilst the object of his love remained the same.
He wished that he could rewind time.
The actual tape became talismanic. The notion of starting another one was anathema. Its deterioration encapsulated his efforts towards perfection. Its faintness, he felt, would give a sense his affection. The bliss of sibilant indecision.
He cared little for high fidelity.
He would not brood, would lose himself in tape loops.
It existed now as a history of erosions, an audio palimpsest, a muted jukebox. In places, the tape worn thin, many songs could be heard simultaneously. It was a fractured cacophony, layer upon layer. All manner of rumble lay underneath. There were ghosts of songs, ethereal yearnings, hits listless in a mist of hiss, subdued troubadours reduced to rumours. Riot grrrls raged in tempered tones, drowned in sound, punk prayers thinned to whispered incantations. Orchestral moments became waves of white noise, a diminished swish of strings. Vocals struggled through, textured echoes, the strains of sirens trapped down wells, the woozy swoons of gramophone crooners. Music travelled through space and time: the flattened brass stabs of northern soul; the distant jangle of guitar wranglers; hip-hop’s faded breaks, rusty ghettoblaster soundtracks; the thrill of blistered disco; Teutonic remnants: motorik, hypnotic; the muffled fuzz of garage rock.
It was complete.
Through judicious process, he had curated the twenty-nine songs by which he would define himself.
He didn’t wish to think about the time given over to its compilation.
Satisfied at last, he placed it in a jiffy bag. This was the winning mix, a distillation of his life in sound.
Inside it rattled pleasingly.
He would lay it on her grave.
☊
Stuart Snelson lives in London. His stories have appeared in 3:AM, Ambit, Litro, Structo, HOAX, The Londonist and Popshot, among others. He is currently working on his second novel. For a full list of links visit stuartsnelson.wordpress.com or follow him on Twitter @stuartsnelson.
