Flipping through black CD cases will be a thing of the past soon. CDs will be obsolete and that is no surprise. In spite of this belief of mine I purchased a Tivoli CD player because I still have CDs and I have not yet bought into the MP3 player phenomenon. I do have a first generation iPod attached to the Tivoli tuner. This afternoon I sat on the sofa in my apartment to take care of some finances. I wanted to listen to something that would enter the room discreetly, but not barge in and take my thoughts hostage as I worked.

First, I tried DJ Krush’s “soundscapes” disc from his self-remixed “Stepping Stones” album. The beats were infectious and soon my foot was tapping the hardwood floors. The subwoofer offered warm bass to compliment the mix. Still, my mood was not congruent with Krush’s dramatic sonic dream. I needed something that would seep into my afternoon like honey on toast. I needed music that was sweet yet sad, but would keep me warm on a typical Seattle winter day of overcast skies and rainy mist.

I recently purchased Ryan Adams’s “Easy Tiger” and thought I would give that a listen. I wanted to absorb an album—particularly one I had not become completely acquainted with. Since I only purchase approximately three to five albums a year I tend to wear out the music I do own until it becomes threadbare like some articles of clothing in my closet. No luck finding “Easy Tiger” so I flipped through each of my CD cases, back and forth, on the hunt for an artist that would mimic my disposition.

I stopped on the leaf of the case that held Neko Case’s “Blacklisted.” A friend had given it to me years ago thinking I would like her alt country sound. I thumbed it out of its protective plastic sleeve and ceremoniously inserted it into the CD player. The music started and I realized “Blacklisted” was the album to keep me company this afternoon. I am currently on my fourth rotation of the album and I am fighting back tears at certain moments.

Case’s voice is as haunting as the ghosts in my memories. Instead of infiltrating my quiet afternoon and intimidating me into compliance, her voice enveloped me like a cozy quilt stitched together by the warm hands of my grandmother during the cold winters of Vermont. Each note—each song—is a swatch of hopeful sorrow that encouraged me to type more words onto a blank screen.

Each sentence a victory over the impending laziness of my character, which lurks outside the door of my potential to rob me of a life of wrestling with words and sparing with paragraphs. Each song encourages me to turn my thoughts inward to explore my soul. I am calm and my concentration is maximum as her abundant voice filters through the miniature speakers. Track thirteen fades imperceptibly and I start the album again from the beginning, clinging to a feeling that is fleeting.