He said, “You know, the mind, the mind is just a hard drive
In this life, the mind is just a hard drive”
The first Cassandra Jenkins song to ever grab my attention was this one, from her kaleidoscopic album An Overview On Phenomenal Nature. When I was introduced to this album I was barely surviving a deep personal crisis – just a few months into clawing my way out of a toxic relationship that simply would not flush, and navigating associated losses that at times felt insurmountable. It was early 2021, and I listened to this song for the very first time as I was driving to work – a rare opportunity to leave my 5km radius during Melbourne’s second year of lockdown.
When people around me talk about the pandemic lockdowns of 2020-2021 I have to choose my words so carefully. For so many people, those two years represented a complete halt to life and progress – no weddings, funerals or birthday parties, no holidays or school camps. It was a time when people said goodbye to loved ones over Facetime instead of by their hospital beds, and children missed developmental and social milestones stuck in their bedrooms. Relationships broke down, businesses closed, and many people were forced to face up to their personal demons for the very first time.
I know this now, and I knew it at the time. We are not designed for solitary confinement and so many people buckled under the pressure of it.
I was one of the lucky few. Lockdown was my salvation.
Darryl’s been teaching me to drive
I finally got my license when I was thirty-five
Speeding up the west side, changing lanes,
He reminds me to leave room for grace
He said, “Have you been seeing your therapist?
You seem a little on edge. Are you always this nervous?”
I said, “Yes, and this is a hard drive.”
Melbourne was the most locked down city in the world, and I experienced it so differently to most people. My stupid little email job meant that my salary was never interrupted, and some of my work was significantly easier when I was doing it from home. I had a house and a yard and a hammock all to myself, so I never had to negotiate with kids or housemates for a quiet hour to have my meeting.
I had space, space to spread out and the time to make my home a sanctuary from the fear and misery outside. I was never low on fresh air or sunshine. I missed my friends and family, but things had gotten so bad that I was just grateful to not be trapped inside with somebody who was mistreating me.
With no cars humming outside my window after curfew I slept deeply. I learned how to tell my magpies apart, and knew which one would pretend to have a sore foot until he was rewarded with a piece of meat. With no people or cars around at night, life passed more slowly and foxes made themselves at home in the quiet of my garden. I took online classes in whatever I could find – painting, ethics, how to write a budget. I lacked the foresight or attention span to sink my teeth into any meaty projects, but with every day that passed I was stronger and more like myself again. Only better than before.
When lockdown began in March 2020 I was suddenly and completely alone, physically sick and fighting to stay above water. By the end of 2021 I had largely rebuilt myself from the ashes, and while everyone else yearned for the freedom to leave our suburbs, I was just beginning to enjoy the newfound freedom in my mind.
I ran into Perry at Lowell’s place
Her gemstone eyes caught my gaze
She said, “Oh, dear, I can see you’ve had a rough few months
But this year, it’s gonna be a good one
I’ll count to three and tap your shoulder
We’re gonna put your heart back together
So all those little pieces they took from you
They’re coming back now, they’ll miss ’em too
So close your eyes, I’ll count to three
Take a deep breath, count with me”
Hard Drive became a kind of anthem for this period in my life. When crisis descended, I instinctively tried to rebuild myself according to the original blueprint. But what are we to do when entire building blocks are missing, warped or eroded?
When I heard this song for the first time I found solace in this notion of all my little pieces coming back to me, in their own time, and in whatever shape they found themselves in. Welcoming back the parts that were always supposed to be mine, without worrying too much about what the final product would look like when I got around to putting them together.
When time stopped being linear, the journey became far more important. And this song arrived in my life when the finish line was so unattainable that it wasn’t worth picturing.
She said, “One, two, three.
Just breathe.”
This song reminds me of healing, and hope, and slowing down for long enough to formulate a plan. Part of me wonders where I’d be right now without those two gentle (for me) years, and this specific album.
