The first time I listened to Pink Floyd I was twelve years old. I found a stash of green weed, locked myself in my room, put on the headphones, laid down on the bed, and closed my eyes. I was mesmerized. I listened to the entire Wall album from start to finish about 3 times over. It seemed to encapsulate everything I was feeling inside that I couldn’t let out. The rueful, lamenting lyrics, Roger Waters haunting, maniacal vocals mixed with Dave Gilmour’s sensual liquid melodies and the psychedelic effects, I was on sensory overload and I never wanted it to end. It was like having my first orgasm.

I’ve been listening to Pink Floyd again lately. I always gravitate towards it when I feel my life moving through some sort of change or phase. I pull out my Wall cd and am almost transported back in time. In an odd way, it helps me to transition and ground me. Music was my best friend growing up. The Doors, Led Zeppelin, and Pink Floyd were my favorites. I’m not sure how I would have survived a lot of crazy shit without my records and cassettes.

Before I was old enough to drive, my girl friends and I would skip school, catch the bus and ride two towns over to the nearest “city”. Our destination? Record Broker. It was a record store but really, it was a head shop. We went there for Rare B sides of Pink Floyd’s Ummagumma, and Jim Morrison’s An American Prayer. When we were done perusing the countless aisles of records, we sorted through the display cases of paraphernalia. Pipes, screens, rolling papers, bongs, the tie-dyes, love beads, incense, pachouli oil, and concert t-shirts. Pins were big in the 80's too, I wore them on my levis jean jacket. My favorite pin was, you guessed it, the Wall.

My brother now lives in the house that we grew up in. He bought it from our parents after their divorce. By the time I was 15, both of my parents had moved out and I was living there with my two older brothers. It was like the R-rated version of Party of Five . Sure, my brothers did their best to keep me in line and out of trouble, but c’mon they were only 17 and 20 at the time, still kids themselves. Our house was the place to be for everyone from age 15-30 who wanted to hang out or needed a place to crash. There were endless keg parties, bonfires on the mountain, this was my playground. People coming in and out at all hours, we were young, wild, and free, there were no rules, no supervision, Those were the good times.

Recently, Brother #2 started renovating my old bedroom into his master bedroom. It was just a room with an attic. The attic I would crawl into to sneak cigarettes and entertain midnight guests who I’d pull through the window. I would host secret parties for my friends while my family members lay unwittingly sleeping in other parts of the house. I remember smoke and candles, music, the careful walking on beams and crouching down. I’m not sure how the ceiling didn’t cave in with all the traffic that went in and out of there. But most of all I remember my attic as a place I used to go to be alone when I was younger to escape my parents fighting. I would take my music and my smoke and disappear up there for hours. That house was the scene of so much good mixed with bad that it’s almost painful for me to be there sometimes. But I still go because I love spending time with my brothers, they are my two best friends who know me better than anyone else in the world. We have our own language that nobody else can understand, like twins only we're not.

So I get a call from my brother the other day. We make small talk and I ask how the renovations are going. He says, “Pretty good, ah……I was tearing down the sheet rock in the attic and ah......I found some of your old things.” “Oh, what did you find?”, I asked innocently but detect some held-back laughter in his voice. I found some old candles, some clothes, and pictures, and there was some old writing carved into the wall. “What did it say?” It said, “ There is no pain, you are receding. A distant ship’s smoke on the horizon. You are only coming through in waves. Your lips move but I can’t hear what you’re sayin’. When I was a child I had a fever. My hands felt just like two balloons. Now I got that feeling once again. I can’t explain, you would not understand. This is not how I am. I have become comfortably numb.”

He saved the small piece of plywood with my childhood etchings and we both shared a good laugh and a "knowing without speaking" moment. I live my life for these little moments that don't happen nearly as often as they should. It is THIS moment, right here when I realize there is a bigger force at work and I am exactly the person I am supposed to be at this point in time. I can't believe it has been 20 years since I carved those writings into the wall and all that has transpired good and bad, and what it has taken to get to this place. It was like finding a message in a bottle, a time capsule that I sent to myself. It was sad to see the old room dismantled but it reminded me in a symbiotic way, that maybe it is indeed time to tear down the wall.