i. Elliott Smith, �Needle in the Hay�

I am sitting on the dusty floor of my friend R�s apartment, rooting around in my bag for a pencil. E is sitting on the other side of the room with his guitar, noodling around in some unexpected way. R is attaching the pickup mike to my violin. Because of the three of us he is the least knowledgable about the technical equipment, he is naturally the self-appointed audio engineer. But it is his piece we�re here to play today, so we humor him. I start improvising on one of Satie�s Gymnopedies. E joins in as the sun breaks through the clouds and shoots a beam of light behind his head, making his left ear glow a deep pink.

ii. Moby, �Inside�

I�m standing outside the band room in my high school trying to blend into the wall. I�m cutting the required all-school pep rally, currently being held in the gym, because pep rallies make me feel physically ill. I get flashbacks to some afterschool special where a teacher uses Nazi-like techniques to teach his students a lesson about how easy it was for Hitler to gain power (I was always very dramatic). M. walks by, his ever-present drumsticks beating out a rhythm on the lockers. Our eyes lock and he nods, a conspiratorial gesture that lets me know that he knows why I am there. I watch him walk past me down the hall singing, �Hit me slow or hit me quick, Hit me with your rhythm stick� while I feel my face flame up past the tops of my ears.

iii. George Winston, �Longing/Love�

It�s late October, very cold. I�m sitting in my friend K�s Georgetown apartment. She and her roommates are all gone. I�ve just returned from the National Gallery and now I�m alone in the dim chill of the room. I turn on the stereo and watch the wind blow the leaves outside the window until they all return in a cheerful crowd to make dinner together in the warm kitchen.

It�s November and I�m back at school. I�m taking a midnight walk through the residential streets of town, staring in the glowing windows, feeling the leaves swirl around my ankles. I am lonely and happy and unencumbered. I am inexplicably drawn to these windows at night, to midnight strolls alone, to leaving without a word and returning without an explanation. It is the privilege of being alone.

A year or two later we are all piled into the uncomfortable wooden seats of the overheated auditorium to hear him play. It is November once more, but this time unusually warm. Nevertheless, we are all feeling the horror/excitement of the impending exams and holidays. He plays �Linus and Lucy� and all the children rush the stage to dance alongside the piano. Soon we rush too, until there is hardly any room to move and hardly anyone left in the seats. He plays it over and over again because we keep begging for more. When we finally leave, the moon follows us home.

iv. Buena Vista Social Club, �Chan Chan�

We are sitting in a hotel bar, our feet still ocean-damp, sipping mojitos and watching the beautiful people cruise South Beach. It is October and it is hot. We are with old friends and we are happy. It feels like a pact of sorts. We are here, we have survived, in one way and another. Life is getting better and we will all see each other again next year. I feel like dancing, but realize that it�s probably just the mojitos and think better of it, leaving my toes tapping aimlessly under the table.

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