#i feel so disjointed and displaced and blah blah blah

[135-film]

i dont want to die but i dont want to be alive either. lol.

[iinventedthepotato-blog]

A brief encounter with my musical (and moral) acquaintances.

I am approaching the end of my two weeks’ annual leave. Last week I was in Athens. I was hot, tired, bitten to bits, with mixed emotions but for the most part, pretty content. This week I have felt anxious and depressed. Perhaps not depressed, I don’t like to use that term, it feels too ‘final’. Displaced, disappointed, lost even. These words are probably more apt for my current state of mind.

My mind is causing me some serious harm at the moment (well, on and off since teenhood really, overwhelmingly so since February 2019 and that strange, melancholy drive to work, listening to Girl in Amber and realising that I was so open and yet so closed, filled with emotion to the point that I felt empty, feeling so much that I began to feel nothing. A strange electricity seeping from my pores that made my being feel numb, useless, to the point that I relaxed a little too much when I saw a huge truck nearing my lane, closing in on my car, myself, and then this total, I’ll call it ‘empty-fullness’, hit me and I cried. Yes, there I was at 08:45, driving along, trying to draw my tears back in, starting to feel a little amused at the way I must have looked to other drivers. And then I stopped crying, imagined straightening myself out, thought about the day ahead, continued listening to the CD, and all this before 09:00. Thanks, Nick).

I keep revisiting this episode, partly because I have convinced myself that that was normal, acceptable Tuesday morning behaviour and deep down I know it was far from acceptable, but moreover it got me to thinking about music, more so my response to music. Had I have listened to something else, would I have had a different experience that day and from that day on? Would the ensuing problematic emotions, that have, let’s face it, continued to burden me since that day have stayed buried deep within? Perhaps they would not have appeared at all and by now I would have been doing cartwheels out of bed?

I am trying to understand this jigsaw of emotions that was in me, around me, not to mention coming out of my speakers. Music is sometimes so caught up with being in the background of our existence, that we can forget how important and how emotionally draining (in a positive way!) it can be. Less sound and more a conversation with ourselves, our surroundings, ourselves in our surroundings, and our mind (and spirit, if you like) forcing that connection, our physical selves do not really stand a chance. It is a gorgeous feeling really, that moment when you almost wake up from a somewhat catatonic state and hear something and realise it entered your entire being before you even acknowledged it was a song, a composition, some silly chords and words put together, that suddenly speaks for you when you can’t find the words, becomes a sort of medication for the spirit, a friend-foe (if something can make you feel so alive and yet so bitterly sore, can we truly call it a friend? If all your musical choices feel like friends then you are probably listening to too much glee). It would be trite to refer to music as an extension of the self, a missing part of our character, but surely it must be something more than mere background noise?

There must be a reason why we listen to what we choose to listen to; does it choose us, does it fit our social climate, our customised image, is there something deep in that complicated landscape, or that shitty ditty that we, to a point, take for granted? Have you ever had a day wherein you do not listen to anything at all? I have had weeks in which I will listen to the radio on my daily commute. I share this because to me, this feels like listening to ‘nothing’. It is blah. Now and again you may come across a decent song and the incessant retuning and skipping will feel worthwhile, but for the most part, it is a pointless task, in which white noise would be preferable. And I worry that time is too precious to listen to inanity. A day wasted when I could have had Lou or Nick. I say ‘day’ because as an adult, with a job, a house, relationships to maintain etc., you quickly lose track of spare time.

When I was younger I had so much time to discover new (and old) music, I could easily dedicate my day to listening to Radiohead’s complete back catalogue, from start to finish. That would be a worthwhile day’s work right there. Now there is less time for music, and it really boils down to the daily commute. Even if the radio is on at work, it must be communal, accessible to all, sadly no one wants jazz fusion or industrial, it has to be something light-hearted, easy-going, and to a point, blah. Then home time comes and there are always other things to do. It almost feels odd to sit and listen to music in the evening, like something is wrong. Should someone walk into the room, and find me sitting alone, listening to something deep, dark and wonderful, they will almost definitely assume that some of my wires are out of place, that I am planning something morbid, or I have had a bad day (when it would probably be the complete opposite!). So why is it perfectly and socially acceptable to watch TV alone but not to listen to music? I fear that reading is escaping down that same path, hence I fit my reading into bath time, otherwise I struggle (but that is for another time).

I guess the point I’m making, or querying, is it is hard, when you’re in a relationship, to find time to do things like read, or listen to music (the latter because for me, unless it is accompanied by alcohol, chitchat and dancing, is an all too personal experience to share with someone, unless that exploration is equally valued and on par with watching The Price is Right. It quickly becomes too awkward and deep, like something intense has to happen and then there is the problem of too much silence, if silence falls, it feels irregular, but if conversation ensues, the music becomes meagre background noise, UNLESS it is a deep analysis of the music, but that is probably too tiring after a day’s work, in which all we really want is to stare at a wall, notice some new markings, think about things, the marking, the music, the markings in relation to the music, the day in relation to the music, the markings starting to become words and images and then you have yourself a chance artwork! OR as previously highlighted, something to fill the empty space of things, and connect us, that music that resonates and creates and just kind of happens around us, in us, and does not really need to impress us or do anything at all, but simply exist, in that moment and create a barrier, or blanket, or friend, or punchbag or maybe just something lovely that will perish within the next three minutes. You can try and listen to something again the following day, week, year, but it will not feel the same, simply because you will not feel the same and therefore that connection, or friendship will feel different. You may have a greater understanding of it, or your feelings have changed completely, and it no longer affects you, perhaps it has joined the blah pile?).

To return to my original point, and to the present. When I think about Monday I shudder, feel tension in my chest, feel guilt over my lack of productivity, feel disjointed and irritable, feel I have not seen enough people, done enough activities. When I think about returning to work, I want to hurt myself in some way (and what would my body have possibly done to deserve that?). However, I know deep down that it is not work’s fault, it is me; it is in me.

The problem lies in connection with adulthood, my awareness of what is expected versus what I expect of myself. When I was at work a couple of weeks ago, I talked fondly of this post-holiday week, in which I would make clothes, paint, write, do all of the things I used to enjoy but tell myself I no longer have time to do, I’d embrace this week of nothingness, no plans, just Kelly time and really throw myself into making myself feel something, not happy, but alive. Now it is Thursday and I have not really done anything of note. I have exercised, sent off some poems (I really had to force that one as the frame of mind I am in will not permit rejection of any kind), been to the pub and for tea (my social side needs some stimulation, and it involved live music) and I have watched films, bought some music, skincare etc., little things really. However, the guilt is there; I should have done more with my time, I will not get this back, I will go to work on Monday and regret not enjoying my freedom… but why the guilt? Maybe I can just be and not have to do all the time. Maybe reading that book or watching that film or eating those biscuits meant something to me at that time, and just because my mind is somewhere else, trying to sew a dress or draw some lemurs, it should not have the right to make me feel lifeless and sad for doing something else.

There are things we do, things we think we want to do, things we think we should do and then there is the stuff in between, the things we call pointless, a waste of time etc. My fear is that the things I think I want to do now are actually the interests of the old me, and I do not want to do them anymore, that part of me is dead and I am holding on because there is nothing else going on in my life that I get pleasure from, like real day-to-day pleasure. It is bullshit, and I know it. That part of me is there, whether it pops up in the next hour or in the next decade, who cares, putting pressure on myself to be something that really, my current state is not ready to be, is actually killing any kind of spirit I have. Nothing can be forced. With the exception of Monday morning and that dreaded return to vocational life. But hey, we all have to do it, much like trips to the bathroom and eating healthily. So, perhaps nothing is pointless after all. It is all pulling and pushing, plotting and plodding, and time for nothingness has to fit in somewhere. If only for a chance to expel the negativity, or positivity, if you please. And I actually really enjoyed Mona Lisa Smile.