It almost seems customary that when new music is purchased, there is a listen-through.  It is put in the Bose system, and played all the way through with my brother and whoever else pitched on the couch with intent on hearing every note.  Tonight was a night like that.  The newest Atreyu CD has been bought by a friend, so we sat and listened.  It was nice, the time flew by very quickly.  As soon as the one song starts, I want to say it will probably be his favorite, but after a minute he says it himself.  The album is pretty optimistic in comparison to Lead Sails Paper Anchor, and I imagine as I try to make out all the lyrics that he and my brother are probably soaking in all of the drumming.  Comments are exchanged that I don't comprehend completely, because I simply don't drum.  There is an odd gap that I don't know how to explain: how I am sitting right next to them and listening to the same music, but hearing something completely different.  It's a very removed feeling, and I think it's the whole purpose of music.  No two people will get exactly the same thing out of it, and as far as my interests and knowledge goes, I am not hearing what they are.

The house is dark.  We have turned off all the lights in their need for less distraction from listening.  The blue ring of light from the television becomes the brightest thing in the house, glowing and revealing blue details that our eyes have adjusted to seeing.  His hand comes up occasionally, doing something with his fingers that I don't understand, and can't figure if it goes with the music.  When this first happened, I reached up to touch his fingers in question and he jerked away.  Somehow this made me feel like a little kid, too curious and being told not to mess with something.  I busy myself trying to understand the drums in the music, flexing my feet in the air against imaginary bass pedals as I follow the beat I know I am mixing up.  I try to hear the bass, single it out from the rides, toms and snare drum, but it blurs into a general rhythmic sound that confuses my pulsing feet. 

I don't feel so well lying on my stomach, but I'm having too much fun focusing on my pretend drumming feet.  That and the fact of cramps, but they aren't too bad- just slight enough to make me feel like I'm sick.  When I turn my head to the front door and swear I see the quick passing of someone's shadow across the wall, he won't stop analyzing the situation. 

"It could be someone in the back yard.  Think about it, with the light." 

Thinking too much on it is creeping me out and I fight the urge to sit up and gather my feet and legs closer to me, away from the dark mysterious corner of the room.  The weight on my eyes wavers as the songs play by.  At some point, my awareness lifts.  Still, I hate that I fight going to sleep.  Why do I feel like I will be missing out if I let my eyes close?  There is so much to be done at night, so much to explore while the world around you is asleep.  There hasn't been much writing that I've ever done during the day.  Even a lot of what I write outside of my blog is done later in the day, or at night, when I go on walks to get out of the house.  Home almost seems the source for emotion, and I let a lot of it build up... sometimes it just needs to be written out.

I don't get a hug goodbye.  I don't ask for one.  I don't care what he thinks or says, it's weird to have to ask for a hug all the time.  I rarely do it, and when I do, there is always a slightly odd reaction from him.  Whatever.  I let him put on the big helmet and try to ignore the hug all together.  The door is locked behind him, and I turn off the entry-way light so my brother can stop sheilding his eyes.  Even the blue ring from the television has now been covered by a DVD case so the light won't bother him.  That doesn't stop me from turning on the lamp in the other room so my eyes aren't burned out by the computer screen.  It's so evasive to his darkness that he takes his music and retreats to his bedroom where I think he ought to have been anyways.  Want to sleep, go upstairs.  It is night, I am tired, I had a long day, but there is so much room for work now without everyone bustling around. 

There are bits and pieces of my day that I wish I had the patience to write.  Dad's showroom needed desperate cleaning, and I had the job all to myself.  The dust was pretty bad, but even moreso was the sawdust coating a whole corner of the place since my dad had to recut several countertops to fit new sinks for display.  I kept vacuuming my one good dusting rag in effort to try and keep from putting more dust on everything.  Don't use windex or solutions, they could ruin the finish.  Don't want to use water- spots are annoying and more work to avoid.  That leaves me a dry microfiber rag that eventually makes you see that you're pretty much pushing dust around instead of wiping it up.  Vacuuming tile of the floor displays, the maze of carpet that I follow around the sinks, toilets and tubs across the showroom.  Sucking up the dry skeletal remnants of spiders, cockroaches and- most of all- crickets at corners and in sinks.  There is the occasional webbed death trap full of little white insect carcasses, sucked dry by hidden spiders.  By the time I am all done, there are no ugly bug graveyards, no scuffed tiles, no dusty faucets or countertops.  I rinse out the mop with fresh water even though it will be used in the warehouse before I get to it again, so there is really no point.  Bert (the yellow mop cart) and Ernie (the orange mop) are stored in the dirty warehouse corner, my feet complain as I take careful, tired steps to the showroom half of the building and start gathering all my things: the CDs, the rags, the vacuum, my bag...

What I wouldn't give to have a foot massage right now.  Just thinking about the hours and hours I spent on my feet going up and down a small step stool to reach the high faucets, the pacing forward and back with the vacuum cleaner, makes them ache again.  But he's gone for tonight.  I locked the door behind him after not recieving a hug I didn't bother to awkwardly ask for, and now I am trying to make the most of what night consciousness I have.  It has been a good day, a long day, a tiring day, a clean day.  My legs are smoothe; I shaved in the hot shower that my feet were too tired to enjoy standing in.  I drove on the busy freeway all by myself and did fine... Progress?  Maybe I will feel better when my dad sends in the notice for me to be paid for the cleaning the showroom.  Maybe I will feel better when my eyes are closed for at least 8 hours.  Maybe next time I should ask for a hug because I want one.  Maybe lots of things, but we just have to deal with each second, each minute, hour, day, week.... at a time.  Goodnight, Starshines.