Music—much like writing—has always seemed to operate as a sort of “focal point” in my life.
I never really played in instrument, though. I played the trombone in the middle-school band, but I spent most of class launching paper wads at my friends—I would routinely make a sling shot out of a cleverly placed rubberband around the instrument’s slide. Years later, I attempted to learn how to play the drums, but the experiment failed (I blame that on the fact that my teacher reeked of cigarrettes and legitimately may have been on the sex-offenders list). My love of and appreciation for music—since day one— has been as an observer.
I am listening to Andrew Bird’s new album as I sit and write this blog post. I have been listening to it on repeat for days now, actually. But just last week, I couldn’t stop listening to Sleigh Bells. Now, these genres of music are polar opposite—how do we find ourselves enjoying different generes of music? I think it’s because we achieve a sort of innate “escape” when find the right song for the right time. As if our emotional state relates perfectly to beat of the song and, somehow, we can relate to that song better than we can to anything else.
The only other place that I find this escape is when I write/read. For example, when I occasionally read something that just resonates with me— something that I have to read over and over again. I like to think that’s when the text/author somehow relates perfectly my life. Or maybe it provides some sort of clarity to something that I was struggling with.
Nonetheless, I think there is something to be said for the fact that so many people enjoy music and writing. As if there is something human about these forms of expression/connection…