Monday, August 04, 2003
I also have news, people. The Illy Funpack will be relocating to Seattle, WA come August 19. Expect breathtaking stories and thoughts inspired by the beautiful scenery and the half-lobotomized population (am just being evil).
In the mean time though, I intend to commit a number of descriptions of and narratives about mi pays to the virtual printing press. It is a worthwhile project.
In the mean time though, I intend to commit a number of descriptions of and narratives about mi pays to the virtual printing press. It is a worthwhile project.
I am slowly starting to rediscover my music. I used to almost literally live for music (I’m sorry a cliché is all I can come up with, but how would you call spending my allowance entirely on records and music magazines, having the radio/cassette/CD player on every second of my waking day and getting a job for a music mag at the age of 14 simply because I knew more about my niche than any other normal human being?) when I was a teen. Then, after my first heartbreak, at 18, I suddenly found I couldn’t listen to music anymore. It was almost physically painful – I wasn’t capable of the emotional involvement that I felt music required of me. I was drained.
My ability to appreciate music came back, somewhat stunted, during the first quarter of my 19th year – but I couldn’t listen to the old albums gathering dust on my shelf. I bought a lot of jazz, finding that its silky, intelligent patterns catered more to the brain than to the heart and required understanding rather than empathy. I listened to music that was uncharacteristic to me, like Jill Scott or Lucy Pearl. In any case, I stopped scouting obscure yet immensely talented artists with independent deals for self-produced albums recorded in their mums’ basements.
And then, a few days ago, I was at my old place. I walked into my old room, picked up a few of my old tapes and played them when I got home. Nothing had changed.
My passion for it was intact. But it was the exact same passion that I had left behind at 18. I didn’t relate to it anew. I found myself relating to it the way I did when I first discovered it. It wasn’t the current me listening to 1996 British Indie. It was 1996 Illy.
The most touching aspect of this rediscovery was the realization that what I’ve been through is what I am. Everything and everyone that has ever happened to me will always be (with) me. They may be buried for a shorter of a longer while, but they are not gone, just hidden, and they continue to influence me in their own, unique, ways.
This is, of course, the answer that people undergo therapy in order to find out. I guess I won’t be seeing a shrink anytime soon, then.
My ability to appreciate music came back, somewhat stunted, during the first quarter of my 19th year – but I couldn’t listen to the old albums gathering dust on my shelf. I bought a lot of jazz, finding that its silky, intelligent patterns catered more to the brain than to the heart and required understanding rather than empathy. I listened to music that was uncharacteristic to me, like Jill Scott or Lucy Pearl. In any case, I stopped scouting obscure yet immensely talented artists with independent deals for self-produced albums recorded in their mums’ basements.
And then, a few days ago, I was at my old place. I walked into my old room, picked up a few of my old tapes and played them when I got home. Nothing had changed.
My passion for it was intact. But it was the exact same passion that I had left behind at 18. I didn’t relate to it anew. I found myself relating to it the way I did when I first discovered it. It wasn’t the current me listening to 1996 British Indie. It was 1996 Illy.
The most touching aspect of this rediscovery was the realization that what I’ve been through is what I am. Everything and everyone that has ever happened to me will always be (with) me. They may be buried for a shorter of a longer while, but they are not gone, just hidden, and they continue to influence me in their own, unique, ways.
This is, of course, the answer that people undergo therapy in order to find out. I guess I won’t be seeing a shrink anytime soon, then.
