Colby had thousands of books and many of them he had listed for sale online. The books were spread out over five rooms and other than his personal collection (which numbered about five hundred) none of the books were organized. Lack of organizational skills was part of Colby's dysgraphia disability, along with writing, knot tying, and math calculation. It takes me more than six months but I have examined each book, categorized it, evaluated it for online sales listing, and then either kept it or given it away.
Several hundred books went to Grandpa's House a Nashville-based program for men with mental illness and addiction. About a hundred were so damaged they went in the trash. Several I kept, and I carted more than forty boxes of books to the Goodwill. I still have about two hundred books from Colby's personal collection that I will keep for a while . . . or longer.
The reason this is important is that I carried the last box of books to the Goodwill today. This sorting through thousands of books has taken a good portion of my time. Plus, it was important to move them out so I can begin evaluating, organizing, sorting, categorizing and moving other groups of items such as his hundred or so DVDs, VHS tapes, and video games. There are also several hundred CDs and CD cases in various bags and boxes, and stacked loosely on shelves. Of course none of the CDs are actually in the cases or any where near the case they belong to. I will begin matching those up next. That could take me another six months. At least CDs are smaller than books.
The work is tiring, boring, mind-numbing. But in doing it I feel close to Colby. These were his things, things that were important to him, that meant something to him. The best I can do is keep the ones we were both connected to and find homes for the rest. They do no one any good sitting in a box or on a shelf. Colby would want this music that he loved so much to be appreciated by others. And it will be . . . many months from now.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Friday, February 12, 2010
Monday, November 30, 2009
Privacy
Today I wade through the piles of stuff in Colby's room and pull out one of his computers. He has several, some of which I know do not work. In trying to sort through things I am beginning to test electronics to see what is viable and what is not, what I should keep (for now) and what I can get rid of.
This computer fires right up. It is one I gave him several years ago and he has been storing music files on it. Lots of music files that he produced or composed. I open one file, then another. It seems an invasion of his privacy and it makes me uncomfortable. But it has to be done. Colby was quite talented, but his music was not everyone's cup of tea. It is politically driven with lots of metal. But I have lived in Nashville far too long not to realize it is good. Very good. Some songs I have heard before, over and over as he developed riffs and licks and intros and outros. Day after day, sometimes stretching into weeks, the same song again and again until he got it just right. Other songs I have not heard before. Some are other bands he recorded, many of the songs, both his and other musicians, are partially done.
This entire process of going through his things leaves a sour taste in my mouth. It is likely to be there for a while as I am months away from finishing. I know I have read writings he never intended for me to read, but it must be read for me to know what it is. Is it important enough to save? Does someone else want it? Should it be thrown? I have discussed this before, but in this case I want to say it feels like spying, snooping.
We all leave stuff behind: papers, music, art, books that indicate who we are, where our interests lie, what is important to us. It is a way for those left behind to piece our lives together. But we also leave behind lots of "stuff" that means nothing. Unless we specifically state, it is up to our survivors to figure out which is which. And, we can't possible get it right all the time. So if you have things that are important to you, please let someone know what they are. I can easily sort many of Colby's things. But if a specific piece of jewelry, a rock, a ticket stub had sentimental value or he just happened to drop it on his dresser, I do not know. I am much more equipped today than I was a few months ago to make these determinations. I have pieced much together. But there is much I will never know. And that makes me very, very sad.
This computer fires right up. It is one I gave him several years ago and he has been storing music files on it. Lots of music files that he produced or composed. I open one file, then another. It seems an invasion of his privacy and it makes me uncomfortable. But it has to be done. Colby was quite talented, but his music was not everyone's cup of tea. It is politically driven with lots of metal. But I have lived in Nashville far too long not to realize it is good. Very good. Some songs I have heard before, over and over as he developed riffs and licks and intros and outros. Day after day, sometimes stretching into weeks, the same song again and again until he got it just right. Other songs I have not heard before. Some are other bands he recorded, many of the songs, both his and other musicians, are partially done.
This entire process of going through his things leaves a sour taste in my mouth. It is likely to be there for a while as I am months away from finishing. I know I have read writings he never intended for me to read, but it must be read for me to know what it is. Is it important enough to save? Does someone else want it? Should it be thrown? I have discussed this before, but in this case I want to say it feels like spying, snooping.
We all leave stuff behind: papers, music, art, books that indicate who we are, where our interests lie, what is important to us. It is a way for those left behind to piece our lives together. But we also leave behind lots of "stuff" that means nothing. Unless we specifically state, it is up to our survivors to figure out which is which. And, we can't possible get it right all the time. So if you have things that are important to you, please let someone know what they are. I can easily sort many of Colby's things. But if a specific piece of jewelry, a rock, a ticket stub had sentimental value or he just happened to drop it on his dresser, I do not know. I am much more equipped today than I was a few months ago to make these determinations. I have pieced much together. But there is much I will never know. And that makes me very, very sad.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Music
Music was a very important part of Colby's life. He was one of those people who could pick up an instrument and play it. Guitar, keyboards, drums, fiddle, bass, harmonica and a few unnamed instruments he made from wood, wire, and scrap metal. Today I find on a set of shelves in the basement stacks of guitar "tab." These are the chord progressions of songs that Colby found on the Internet and printed out when he was first learning to play. He was 12 then and there are sheets for lots of songs by B.B. King, Jimi Hendrix, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Stevie Ray Vaughn, among others. I remember Colby sitting in the basement for hours, days on end, going over and over a series of chords, a lick, a riff. And he wouldn't quit until he got it right.
I used to have the same drive, the same obsession with getting a job done right, no matter what it took. I still do the job right, no matter what it takes. I am incapable of doing less, but the passion, the drive, the obsession, for me, has gone. It seems such an effort to do anything these days and I am so tired. So very tired. Members of my grief support group say this happens when life starts to catch up with the grief. One person can only handle, do, so much. I just can't do anymore. I wish I could sleep for a week.
I take comfort in knowing I make daily headway in sorting through Colby's "stuff," and that while I am not nearly as productive as I'd like to be, I do get things done. It tales me longer than I'd like to do them, and I am still about 10 days behind in turning work projects around, but I can see that in many ways I am moving forward. It's been three months today since Colby passed. Other parents remind me that I am still in the early stages of my grief. The very early stages. They remind me to take care of myself, not to push myself too much, to tackle life at a slower pace than I am used to.
So today I allow myself to linger over the pages of Colby's guitar tabs. I stand next to the recycle bin in the bright fall sunlight and pull staples from the sheets. I remember each song, and the days of effort Colby put in in learning them. I hear the music, his music, in my head. I debate holding on to the stacks of paper, then realize that the sheets are not part of my memories. Colby's fingers slowly moving over the strings, the tentative notes, the music itself is forever and always imbedded in my brain. I carefully place the sheets in the recycle bin and close the lid. Just as I will never forget Colby, I will never forget his music or how much it meant to him. I don't need sheets of paper to remind me of that.
I used to have the same drive, the same obsession with getting a job done right, no matter what it took. I still do the job right, no matter what it takes. I am incapable of doing less, but the passion, the drive, the obsession, for me, has gone. It seems such an effort to do anything these days and I am so tired. So very tired. Members of my grief support group say this happens when life starts to catch up with the grief. One person can only handle, do, so much. I just can't do anymore. I wish I could sleep for a week.
I take comfort in knowing I make daily headway in sorting through Colby's "stuff," and that while I am not nearly as productive as I'd like to be, I do get things done. It tales me longer than I'd like to do them, and I am still about 10 days behind in turning work projects around, but I can see that in many ways I am moving forward. It's been three months today since Colby passed. Other parents remind me that I am still in the early stages of my grief. The very early stages. They remind me to take care of myself, not to push myself too much, to tackle life at a slower pace than I am used to.
So today I allow myself to linger over the pages of Colby's guitar tabs. I stand next to the recycle bin in the bright fall sunlight and pull staples from the sheets. I remember each song, and the days of effort Colby put in in learning them. I hear the music, his music, in my head. I debate holding on to the stacks of paper, then realize that the sheets are not part of my memories. Colby's fingers slowly moving over the strings, the tentative notes, the music itself is forever and always imbedded in my brain. I carefully place the sheets in the recycle bin and close the lid. Just as I will never forget Colby, I will never forget his music or how much it meant to him. I don't need sheets of paper to remind me of that.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Music
Music was a huge part of Colby's life and this morning I try to listen to music. Mostly I can't. I look at his stacks and stacks of CDs and am overwhelmed with choices. He had such eclectic tastes in sound. I begin to post music (or links to music) on his web site in the links section. There will eventually be some of Colby's music and a few songs that meant something to Colby that we have permission to use. The first song is Mustang Sally's "The One That Got Away." It comes out on their debut CD next month. Colby helped me do this band's PR several years ago and everyone who has heard this song says it reminds them of Colby.
I had a rough night last night and today I wake up drained. Maybe I needed the emotional roller-coaster release yesterday. I am back to numb and for now, glad to be here. I read emails from new friends in the grieving parents support group, the group that no one wants to join. Apparently this host of emotions, the crying, the numbness, never completely goes away. They say it eventually gets "softer." For most that happens two to three years out. I can't imagine feeling like this forever. I document my feelings this morning in my notebook and begin another long day.
I had a rough night last night and today I wake up drained. Maybe I needed the emotional roller-coaster release yesterday. I am back to numb and for now, glad to be here. I read emails from new friends in the grieving parents support group, the group that no one wants to join. Apparently this host of emotions, the crying, the numbness, never completely goes away. They say it eventually gets "softer." For most that happens two to three years out. I can't imagine feeling like this forever. I document my feelings this morning in my notebook and begin another long day.
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