I had a Walkman, back in high school. Not a real one: mine was a Panasonic—larger, not as sexy, and definitely not yellow. But I remember perfectly how, in one press of that chunky, plastic, PLAY button, it forever transformed the fabric of my reality: life would now come with a soundtrack. 

And every moment became a story. 

Music—an integral part of the cinematic experience—began to colour my daily activities, adding unforeseen layers and emotions to otherwise mundane moments. Forcing connections to be made. If I watched a tea kettle while playing Miles Davis, or Joy Division, or the Beach Boys, the object would change accordingly. At least my perception of it. Suddenly, every minute became subjective, and open to interpretation.

In an alternate universe where the personal music player never existed, I’m not quite the same person.
Or the same photographer.

...

So, the iPod is dead.
If the Walkman introduced us to the concept of a living soundtrack, the iPod dissolved all remaining barriers. You could drive cross-country for days and never hear the same song twice; you could shuffle everything you owned, everything you loved, and immerse yourself in the illusion of a master DJ, magically reacting to your mood and the world around you. 

I haven’t owned an iPod in years, but last week’s news hit me hard. As others have written, this was a device we controlled completely, filled with our music, away from servers and browsers and social media apps. Well, except for the Touch which, we now know, was a harbinger of things to come.

Last evening, I asked our teenage daughter if she felt the same way I did: if life turned into a movie for her, with headphones on. It does. 

Good. The story continues.