I bought an iPod a couple of weeks ago and the simplicity and power of it scares and awes me, how white-and-silver-elegant it is, so slim 5.6 oz., and how much music it can hold. 5,000 songs. When I first saw that I thought, "That's nuts. Who can listen to 5,000 songs? That would be 500 CDs at 10 songs each. 333 hours of music. That's almost two weeks of solid tunes." Broken down like that it didn't seem as crazy. Apple offers three versions - 2,500 songs, 5,000 songs, 10,000 songs. Like the ambivalent middle bear, I went for the middle chair at the table, the middle bowl of porridge.

The buttons and scroll wheel are hyper-sensitive to my touch and they make these sweet little clicks of encouragement. The iPod clips on the waistband of my pants, or I can plug it into my car, or my computer. Anywhere I am is where it will go and how many friends can give you that much of their time? I wish they could. There are too many people to pine for, so much fine company to have for an hour or two and then miss. If only I could load them in my iPod.

I had this notion that I would copy the best CDs in my collection onto the iPod, and the music I love would be there for me, close at hand, and also in two places. A safe haven in case a hurricane rips the house off the slab. Thirty years of music would be contained in something the size of a pack of cards. Thirty years of songs associated with friends, lovers, cars, parties, sex, almost-sex, break-ups, dark days, risk, new days, possibility.

So far, I have 788 songs, some rock, folk, classical, but most of them are jazz, the beauty and spareness of which makes me sad and reminds me of a hundred mistakes, fifty roads not taken. I can barely listen, but I do. My CDs weren't organized and I didn't realize how deeply I'd bought some artists: Keith Jarrett = 8 CDs; Brad Mehldau = 5 CDs; Jacky Terrasson = 7 CDs; Chet Baker = 5 CDs; Diane Reeves = 6 CDs; Cyrus Chestnutt = 6 CDs; Miles Davis = 7 CDs. They?re locked and loaded, but I need some joy in this iPod, 4,212 second chances.

I've asked my friends to give me their playlists so I can tag along and see what they like. I can't get close enough to the people I care about, is one of my problems, and music has always seemed like a way to do this, an intimacy, even if the intimacy doesn't involve me. Elliott Smith's name keeps coming up on their lists, and I downloaded one of his albums - XO - can't stop listening, wish I'd started my relationship with him before he killed himself. Someone else to miss. These are beautiful songs. Another friend gave me his song - "Hey, Ya!" - hip-hop that makes me jump around like the silhouetted people on the iPod commercial. Too bad I'm old enough to be the mother of them all. These lists pour in and my friends write me a few sentences about what these songs mean to them and it feels like Christmas around here.

Headphones. God, but it's lovely when the earbuds are snugly in place, and I'm caught in the middle of a song. The volume is there for me to caress with my thumb, and I turn it up as loud as is comfortable. Problem is, when I wear them and go out and about I feel drunk and have trouble walking, even after I've taken them off. Listening this way, for me, is a blinders-on attraction to one thing, best done in a chair with my family out of the house. My senses are not good at sharing. The intimacy of someone's voice in my head, the instrumentation split between left and right ear is pure sex, and switching gears discombobulates me. I resent when I have to stop listening because I'm now at the place where I'm supposed to be and, sure, it's odd to sit in a meeting with headphones on, but what is more important? Joni Mitchell singing "A Case of You" or designing a rack brochure?

I'm figuring this out. I may stuff my iPod with 5000 songs, but it won't be so I can forage through all of this music, note for note. I will be happy enough to have so much good music contained in one place where I can get my hands on it if I need to, like the First-Aid kit in the trunk of my car, but not quite. This is a new kind of relief. I will have access to what's just been released, to the sound of other people's joy, anger, sorrow, and I'm just a scroll-click away from memories that'll come back to me if I play their music. My iPod gives them a car to ride in, windows down, eight-pack of Miller ponies on the back seat, radio blaring; curfew's five hours away and the night's open for business.