Cassette Tape

I remember seeing insane tumbles of tangled-up cassette tape flying down the expressway or trailing out of a random cars. Or, even stuck in the branches of trees. It was normal. It was a normal, everyday thing to see in the eighties and even the nineties. When was the last time I saw cassette tape unraveled in such a manner? Released from its case for reasons one could never really know, yet knew all too well. Or, merely flying overhead in the wind independent of logic or reason? When was the last time I witnessed cassette tape being  jettisoned out of someone's window? Cassette tape that was both crunchy and silky to the touch if that's even possible. It was true. Because a tape–any tape–found in this state just might be a double album or something great. And maybe I would be the one who would finally rewind what those yelling people up on the eighth floor clearly could not: a tape. A cassette tape. We played them on tape players; we tossed them over our shoulders into back seats, kicked them around living rooms and stored them on hot windshields. And they–the tapes–never asked for anything. They did not ask to be listened to forever, they didn't even ask for ten years. No, they asked to be listened to for a few years. On players that wouldn't last six months and would eventually reject the tape. Just spit it back out. Without warning. The music itself very often still playing as though nothing were wrong.