I suffer from the late 80s-early 90s sickness of expressing strong emotions through mix tapes. I find that when going through a rocky time or a unbearably, can't-keep-it to-myself joyous time, I make mix tapes -- love letters in a Cyrano de Bergerac fashion, desperate pleas of unremmiting pain and love and joy, all coming from other mouths, due to the inadequacy of my own sounds.
Well, sometimes these tapes end up going to the wrong people. Not mistakes, per se; often the intended recipient is tape deck deficient, or recently exed and on my bad side or just plain unavailable for delivery. So, sometimes I've made gifts of these tapes to unknowing parties. And sometimes, I feel haunted by what I've done. These third parties occasionally, rarely, really really like these tapes and tender them as valuables, statements and gifts from me to them, as personal as a pint of blood. And I feel bad, because they're listening to someone else's tape.
A while ago, my ego broke and I realized that the same trick had been played on me, more than once. On a long drive, listening to an almost sacred mix tape gift, made by friend, to me! of all people. The truth hit hard. It wasn't my tape. As the songs rattled off, one by one, it became clear that I was listening to someone else's tape. And I sat there, unable to fast forward or eject, transfixed like a great North Woods hunter, caught in his own bear trap, nothing to do but spend 90 minutes gnawing my own foot off.
