Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Mixtape

Episode Date: February 7, 2022

Our story tonight is called Mixtape and it’s a story about a box of memories tangled up with songs. It’s also about the messages we send with the tracks we pick out, new batteries in an old Walkman, and finding the music that helps you find yourself.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grownups, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories that you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. If you love these stories, there is a whole world waiting for you in my book, also called Nothing Much Happens. It's available in hardback and as an audiobook which I read myself

there are 16 new stories and the only place to hear them in my dulcet tones is in the audiobook which I of course recorded with Bob's help there are several guided meditations you can turn on and just follow along with. Find it, along with our merch and ad-free feeds, at nothingmuchappens.com.

Now, let me say a little about how to use this podcast. I have a story to tell you. And it exists really simply as a soft place to rest your mind. I'll read it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. Just follow along with my voice and the simple shape of the story. And before you know it, you'll be deeply asleep. If you wake in the middle of the night,

you could listen again or just think back through any details from the story that you can remember. Doing so gives your brain a job to do, which shifts it out of default mode. And when that happens, you'll fall right back to sleep. This is brain training, and it does take a bit of practice. So be patient if you are new to this. Now, turn off your light. Put away anything you've been looking at or playing with.

And get as comfortable as you can. Let me remind you, if you've forgotten, that you don't have to earn your rest. You just need it and deserve it, like fresh water and food and deep breaths. So, you've done enough for the day. It's enough. Let's rest.

Take a deep, slow breath in through your nose, and out through your mouth. Nice. One more. In and out. Good. Our story tonight is called Mixtape, and it's a story about a box of memories tangled up with songs.

It's also about the messages we send with the tracks we pick out, new batteries in an old Walkman, and finding the music that helps you find yourself. Mixtape. There was an art to it. The first song had to be really, really good. It needed to pull you in and lay the framework for the mood you were attempting to build. But the second song had to be even better. It had to surprise the listener, who'd assumed that all the magic had been spent on the first track.

Then it would pull back a bit, a song with less punch, but more poetry. Maybe something a little odd, but catchy. And then a song you hadn't heard in ages, but loved and remembered every word of. With room for one more song on the first side of the tape, it was time for another heavy hitter, something that would be rewound and played again before the cassette was flipped. Then the second side called for some nostalgia, slower songs, harmonies that you felt inside your chest when you sang along.

The whole thing was, of course, a message of some sort. Shared favorites for growing a friendship. Showing off your taste or prowess as a curator. But very often, it was a kind of covert love letter. And the second side was the best place to slip in a song or two that showed your heart. It was all deniable, if need be. They were just songs, but they weren't. And finding the one or two that might make the listener.

With their headphones pressed against their ears, their walkman clutched in one hand as they crossed campus. Stop and wonder or smile. Well, that was the point of it all. If you were really going to go all out, you named the mix and scrawled it out on the label stuck to the tape. Something enigmatic and impressive sounding. Or a scrap of an inside joke that reminded them of how you'd laughed together.

You might even design a cover, some hand-drawn art, or a photo that had gone through the copier and come out a bit streaky, but that only added to the effect. Then folding it just so, so it would mimic the J card that usually sat in the hinged plastic case. Did you write anything inside the cover? How brave were you? Did you just write out the playlist? Or maybe you wanted them to discover it one song at a time. That's how I like to do it. It kept the mystery and hopefully weaved a sort of spell as it went from one track to another.

I'd forgotten just how much thought went into those mixes. Almost forgotten about the idea of cassette tapes at all, until I found a shoebox full on a shelf in the basement. It was inside a bigger box, full of things I'd cleaned out of my car. The one that had just barely gotten me through the last two years of high school and the first two of college.

I couldn't remember what kind it had been, except that it was red, and while it didn't start reliably, and the heat was hit or miss in the winter, it had a moonroof, which I thought was the fanciest thing I'd ever seen. That box of cassettes, when I'd pulled off the top and looked down into the mess of them, had brought back a flood of memories. Some were tapes I'd bought at the music store, and I remembered standing in front of the racks of new music, figuring out if I could afford more than one, and if it was going to be just one, which one? I thought about how we'd listened to the same tapes over and over.

How you could come to know the songs in order, and when the flip to side B would be. In the box were a few with very beat-up cases that had been carried in back pockets and book bags, passed back and forth at lunch, and traded for weeks at a time. I swung open a few cases and took out the liner notes

to read what the artists had written. Some were just lyrics, and others had pictures of the band, drawings, and quotes. These had felt so meaningful, so special when I'd opened them for the first time. There is something about finding the music that feels like it was written for you when you're growing up. You're trying on different ideas and styles. And when something fits you down to your bones, it might be the first time you feel like you belong.

That changes a lot. It's no wonder we made these mixes with such care. They were a way of asking if we belonged with each other. In the bottom of the box, past the tapes I'd bought from the music store, were the mixtapes. Most of them were loose, without cases. Just a few words scratched out on the labels, and suddenly I had to hear them again.

I went through the boxes in the shelves around me. There must be a tape player somewhere here. I'd had a stereo that had a record player built into its top, an AM-FM dial in the middle, and two tape decks on the bottom that let you record from one tape right onto the other

the height of technology at the time. But that had been sold in a garage sale when I was still in high school. I found a flat, black tape deck with a microphone attached and a bright red record button. And remembered that, for a while,

folks would make all sorts of recordings with devices like these. We'd just talk into them as if they were our diaries. We'd record family histories, or take birthday parties to play back later, though I can't imagine that was ever actually done much. Beside it, in the same box, was exactly what I needed. My Walkman, bright yellow, and with the headphones still plugged in. I rushed to the kitchen drawer for a couple of batteries and settled on the sofa with the Walkman and the box of tapes. I played a few I'd made myself.

Songs for driving with the windows rolled down. Songs for amping myself up before a test or audition. Songs for a broken heart. I found some in the handwriting of my best friend. Funny how you don't forget how someone writes their E's or M's. These songs made me smile and tap my toes on the living room rug, remembering how we'd listen, stretched out on one of our beds on Friday nights, talking for hours and eating bowls of popcorn,

till one of our parents got fed up with the music and told us to pack it in for the night. Finally, and maybe I'd been saving it, since I'd first spotted it in the bottom of the box, I played a tape whose case was still carefully preserved. The tape had my name written in red ink on the label. For you, from me, it said. I turned the cassette over in my hands a time or two. I'd played it so many times that it was probably near worn out,

but I hoped it would play at least once more. I flipped it to side A and slid it carefully into my Walkman and pressed play. Mixtape. There was an art to it. The first song had to be really, really good. It needed to pull you in and lay the framework for the mood

you were attempting to build. But the second song had to be even better. It had to surprise the listener, who'd assumed that all the magic had been spent It would pull back a bit. A song with less punch, but more poetry. Maybe something a little odd, but catchy. And then a song you hadn't heard in ages but loved and remembered every word of.

With room for one more song on the first side of the tape, it was time for another heavy hitter. Something that would be rewound and Then the second side called for some nostalgia. Slower songs. Harmonies that you felt inside your chest when you sang along. The whole thing was, of course, a message of some sort. Shared favorites for growing a friendship. Showing off your taste or prowess as a curator. But very often it was a kind of covert love letter. And the second side was the best place to slip in a song or two that showed your It was all deniable, if need be.

They were just songs, but they weren't. And finding the one or two that might make the listener, with their headphones pressed against their ears, their walkman clutched in one hand as they crossed campus, stop and wonder or smile. Well, that was the point of it all. If you were really going all out, you named the mix

and scrawled it out on the label stuck to the tape. Something and scrawled it out on the label stuck to the tape. Something enigmatic and impressive sounding. Or a scrap of an inside joke that reminded them of how you'd laughed together. You might even design a cover, some hand-drawn art or a photo that had gone through the copier and come out a bit streaky, but that only then folding it just right so it would mimic the J card

that usually sat in the hinged plastic case. Did you write anything inside the cover? How brave were you? Did you just write out the playlist? Or maybe you wanted them to discover it one song at a time. That's how I liked to do it. It kept the mystery and hopefully weaved a sort of spell

as it went from one track to another. I'd forgotten just how much thought went into those mixes. Almost forgotten about the idea of cassette tapes at all until I found a shoebox full on a shelf in the basement. It was inside a bigger box full of things I'd cleaned out of my first car, the one that had barely gotten me through the last two years of high school and the first two of college. I couldn't remember what kind it had been, except that it was red. And while it didn't start reliably, and the heat was hit or miss in the winter. It had a moonroof, which I'd thought was the fanciest thing I'd ever seen. That box of cassettes,

when I'd pulled off the top and looked down into the mess of them, had brought back a flood of memories. Some were tapes I'd bought at the music store, and I remembered standing in front of the racks of new music, figuring out if I could afford more than one. If it was just going to be one, which one? I thought about how we'd listen to the same tapes over and over.

How you came to know the songs in order, and when the flip to side B would come. In the box were a few with very beat-up cases. they had been carried in back pockets and book bags passed back and forth at lunch and traded for weeks at a time I swung open a few cases and took out the liner notes to read what the artists had written. Some were just lyrics, and others had pictures of the band, drawings or quotes. These had felt so meaningful, so special, when I'd opened them for the first time. There is something about finding the music that feels like it was written for you when you're growing up.

You're trying on different ideas and styles. And when something fits down to your bones, it might be the first time you feel like you belong. That changes a lot. No wonder we made these mixes with such care. They were a way of asking if we belonged with each other. In the bottom of the box, past the tapes I'd bought from the music store,

were the mixtapes. Most of them were loose, without cases. Just a few words scratched out on the labels and suddenly I had to hear them again I went through the boxes in the shelves around me there must be a tape player somewhere here. I'd had a stereo that had a record player built into its top, an AM-FM dial in the middle, and two tape decks on the bottom that let you record from one tape directly onto another, the height of technology at the time. But that had been sold in a garage sale when I was still in high school.

I found a flat, black tape deck with a microphone attached and a bright red record button. And remembered that, for a while, folks would make all sorts of recordings with devices like these. We'd just talk into them as if they were our diaries. We'd record family histories or tape birthday parties to play back later, though I can't imagine that was ever much done. Beside it, in the same box, was exactly what I needed.

My old Walkman. Bright yellow, and with the headphones still plugged in. I rushed to the kitchen drawer for a couple of batteries and settled on the sofa with the Walkman and the box of tapes. I played a few I'd made myself. Songs for driving with the windows rolled down. Songs for amping myself up before a test or audition. Songs for a broken heart.

I found some in the handwriting of my best friend. Funny, how you don't forget how someone writes their E's or M's. These songs made me smile and tap my toes on the living room rug, remembering how we'd listen, stretched out on one of our beds on Friday nights, talking for hours and eating bowls of popcorn, till one of our parents got fed up with the music and told us to pack it in for the night. Finally,

and maybe I'd been saving it since I'd first spotted it in the bottom of the box, I played a tape whose case was still carefully preserved. The tape had my name written in red ink on the label. For you. From me, it said. I turned the cassette over in my hands a time or two.

I'd played it so many times that it was probably near worn out, but I hoped it would play at least once more. I flipped it to side A and slid it carefully into my Walkman and pressed play. Sweet dreams.