Music to My Ears

I have a very strange relationship with music: I can't live without it. Literally. When I can't find my iPod, which has been rather a lot lately, I walk around with my laptop open and my iTunes running. I associate memories, experiences, and feelings with music the way some people associate those things with smells. There is only one other thing with which I have such an intimate relationship: the written word. Therefore, I hereby combine the two in an non-poetical ode to six songs that have great meaning to me. A playlist of said songs can be found at the bottom of this blog.

1. Return to Innocence by Enigma

This is my favorite song of all time. The first time I remember hearing this song, as embarrassing as this is to admit, was when I watched a Jonathan Taylor-Thomas movie Man of the House about a young man who intensely dislikes his mother's new boyfriend but bonds with and eventually comes to love this man in his own way through a series of activities in the "Indian Guides," a sort of father-son bonding group in the neighborhood. The beginning of this song, a beautiful Native American chant features at the end of this film. When I hear the beginning it reminds me of two relationships I have. The first is with my biological father: I remember how JTT's character came to love the man who became his stepfather and it reminds me how much I love my own father. The second relationship I think of when I hear this song is the relationship I have with my Heavenly Father. This song has a way of randomly playing when I need it most, and every time I hear it I am reminded that my Heavenly Father loves me. The soothing affects that this song has on me helps me to remember that God is in control. 

Furthermore, this song has a message that I need to hear more perhaps than any other. It encourages me to "return to innocence," to return to how I was when I first heard it as a little girl. "Don't be afraid to be weak/don't be too proud to be strong/just look into your heart and that will be the return to yourself." "Don't care what people say/ just follow your own way/ don't give up and lose the chance/ to return to innocence." This song holds multiple messages for me: messages of repentance, finding and being true to myself, redemption, death, and of course, returning to innocence. 

2. Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve

Three of the songs on this playlist remind me of the same person every time I hear them and are inextricably associated with my high school experience. This is one of those songs. I first heard this song my junior year of high school. The orchestral introduction was played over the loud-speakers as the student body entered and exited the auditorium before and after ever assembly that year. I loved it and accidentally stumbled upon it one late night while browsing for new music. 

When I hear it, I remember what a tough year that was and filing in and out of assemblies. The song deals with the struggle for temporal things we leave behind ("tryin' to make ends meet/ you're a slave to money/ then you die").  Junior year was, for me, a struggle with a lot of temporal things: preparing for and choosing colleges; the reconstructive surgery that changed me emotionally, physically and mentally and the lost connection I felt with God after spending an entire semester completely self-centered. It discusses the bittersweet quality of our lives and reminds me of the bittersweet quality of the relationship with the person of whom this song reminds me. Painfully, its chords bring to memory the time I stood against the back wall of the auditorium for an entire assembly next to this person without ever saying a word and regretting it. Still. 

The song's title reflects my how I feel about it. It's bitter and painful, and yet, it's "sounds recognize the pain in me" and "I let the melody shine, let it cleanse my mind [and] feel free."

3. Fix You by Coldplay

This is the second song I associate with high school and with that one person. I remember walking out of my first period Health class on my way to second period during what was the worst semester of my life: Now I was actually applying to the colleges I'd chosen my junior year; my future was uncertain and I was recovering from another surgery. After struggling through Health class, the first song I heard on my iPod was this one. The crooning of Chris Martin about "tears streaming down [my] face," and "[loving] someone but it goes to waste," asking"could it be worse" almost put me into tears right there in the hall. But then, the phrase "lights will guide you home/ and ignite your bones/ and I will try to fix you" reminded me of my Savior and how He could fix me. And how someone already had fixed me, by example, the semester before and, though I couldn't have known it then, would fix me the next semester. 

4. Mustang Sally by The Commitments

This is the first song I ever remember hearing. Ever. This is the song to which I sang before I understood that music was made by artists rather than falling out of the sky and wafting through a stereo. Since I was young, my chore has always been to clean the kitchen. And I've always hated it. When I lived on 3rd north in Bountiful, I was often banished to the kitchen after meals to clean the dishes while my family was in the family room laughing as they watched television together. The family learned their lesson about leaving me though, when a cabinet fell on me and pinned my head between  it and the stove while they were in the other room. Often my friends would call and ask me to play, but I wouldn't be allowed out until the dishes were clean; and since I get horribly distracted, it would often take until all the soap bubbles were gone. 

Luckily for me, however, my father had a soft heart and took pity on me many a time. He would come into the kitchen, put on the soundtrack to The Commitments and we would dance around the black-and-white-checkered floor while he sang the male lead and I sang the female backup, using an egg-beater as a microphone. We may not have gotten the kitchen cleaned much faster, but it was certainly much more fun. To this day, I cannot clean the kitchen without music and yes, I sing and dance. The people who live behind us get quite a show.

This song made the 1965 Ford Mustang my favorite car. And, since the other songs on the soundtrack included other soulful and jazzy numbers such as "Chain of Fools," it probably prepared my pipes for the genre, as today my voice sounds much better as a soul sister than a pop princess.  Finally, when I hear a new song, I sometimes evaluate it based on whether or not my husband will be able to sing and dance to it in the kitchen with our daughter. "Ruby" by the Kaiser Chiefs is my current favorite.

5. Suffer Well by Depeche Mode

Depeche Mode, one of my favorite bands, almost had two songs on this list. But I didn't think it would be fair, and I have more of an attachment to this one than any other. Off their Playing the Angel album that came out in the fall of 2005, the songs on this album were described on the jewel case as being "pain and suffering in various tempos," thus, this album fit my personality more or less perfectly, probably more to the more.  This song, written by lead singer Dave Gahan about his extensive drug use, stuck out to me. My life has its share of pains and sufferings in various shapes and sizes or "tempos"  The chorus line of "just hang on/ suffer well" has become my version of "endure to the end."

6. Romeo and Juliet by The Killers

 The #1 played song on my iTunes currently with  114 plays, this  cover of the great song by the Dire Straits is one of which I never tire. I chose this one over the originally because 1/ The Killers is one of my two favorite bands (Depeche Mode is the other), 2/ I prefer the rawer, grittier sound of Brandon Flowers's voice to Mark Knopfler's and 3/ I find Brandon Flowers incredibly attractive and like to visualize him singing this song at my wedding, to me, as the groom. Well, I don't really visualize the wedding part, but I wouldn't object to it if it ever happened. 

My reasons for liking this song so much could provide enough material for a teen angst/romance novel. I like the idea of a guy stepping out of the streetlight and saying "You and me babe/ How 'bout it?" Mostly because I have an obsession with streetlights and lamps of all kinds, but also because what follows is a ballad of love and devotion on the part of this song's Romeo for Juliet. I'm not gonna lie: If the right person told me I'd "exploded in [their] heart" I would find it awkwardly romantic. Romeo says a lot of things sweet and romantic but a little awkward and off, just how I like it. Things like "I dream your dream for you and now your dream is real," and "I can't do a love song the way it's meant to be/ I can't do everything but I'd do anything for you/ I can't do anything except be in love with you." Romeo's devotion for Juliet lightens the heart blackened by the previous "Suffer Well."

Finally, as you may have guessed, this is the third song that reminds me of the person who really had a huge impact on my life, and it wouldn't be but for one line: "It was just that the time was wrong." 

Shakespeare wrote "If music be the food of love, play on./ Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting/ the appetite may sicken, and so die." Music may not fuel my love, but it fuels my life and I imagine that in the day I get too much of it, in the day I grow sick of it, I'll stop living.

Explicit Liber Regis Quondam Regisque Futuri

For those of you looking for a translation to the Latin: This is the story of the Once and Future King

I still remember the first book I ever smelled: The Indian in the Cupboard by Lynne Reid Banks. The book became popular when I was in the third grade because of the movie and I was given a copy of the book in school. For all its popularity, it did little to endear itself to me. The plot had merit but seemed predictable, the characters inspired indifference for their fates, and the writing didn't particularly impress me. A commercial book marketed to children experiencing the psychological stage of development where they believe toys are alive, children who've just exited that stage but secretly hold on to it, and mothers who want their children to read more and need a book with a premise tempting enough for their reluctant-to-read child--this book fulfilled its purpose by selling well for a few years, bringing in more bucks for the publisher when it materialized into a feature film, and ending up on the thrift store shelf a decade after its release. It was an instant gratification book for the publisher, hardly a classic. 

Despite my strong distaste for the story, read when I still maintained a policy of finishing every book I started, I loved the book. For the first time, I appreciated a book for the paper on which it was printed, for its glossy paperback cover and its black serif words. I suppose in human interaction appreciation for someone based solely on their physical features as opposed to the  content of their personality might fall within the realm of shallow behavior on the part of the beholder.  Yet, my appreciation for the object of a book kept me from discarding the story of the plastic-to-flesh Indian and instead secured it a place in the Hall of my Endearments.

One might inquire as to the origins of my affections for the book I read with displeasure: Lying on my stomach on the floor of my bedroom, couched between my bed and the window facing the east wall, completely unseen by anyone who might whim to enter my room; I fanned the gray-tinged pages against my face and the warm spring air, inhaling the scent slowly. I exhaled reluctantly and the held the rough-matte pages to my nose like a gardener to his fragrant flowers. The scent--musty and sharp--juxtaposed with the smell of unnatural man-made ink seemed so comfortable to me, soothing and familiar. 

Ever since that day, I doubt I have ever read a book without smelling it's pages: This simple action completes my relationship with the book. And every time I begin a new book, I am doing just that--embarking on a relationship. I share experiences, emotions, thoughts with each book I read; when I am with a book, I am only in the company of that book, setting aside a piece of myself and my time only for those paper-backed pages. 

Sometimes I get hurt in the relationship. Of Mice and Men rendered me unable to say I'd never read a book I didn't like: I'll never have those minutes of my life back again. As much as many of my friends enjoyed The Old Man and the Sea in my opinion, it was poetically shallow and confirmed my adoration for the rhapsodizing of Dickens. And, while I dearly loved the contents of Death of a Salesman,  the Penguin-classic pages from which I read smelled like puke--creating an exact juxtaposition to my experience with The Indian in the Cupboard. I later purchased another copy of the Arthur Miller play. Same book, different package.

Yet, despite all those poor literary relationships, my best relationship and most cherished developed the same way all my best human relationships form. It came from an unattractive, slightly abused--and by abused I mean it had giant red ink stains all over the pages--copy of The Once and Future King from the Salt Lake Public Library. Even before I read that beautiful opening line "On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays..." I cradled its spine in my left hand, placed my right thumb on the edge of its first page and with slight pressure against the back cover from the fingers on my right hand, I coursed my thumb from the first page to the last, slightly bending the book and sending the worn-soft pages waving past my eyes and blowing a swift breeze across my face. My whole body filled with the scent. It smelled wise, neglected, and forgotten. It smelled like soil that had been too many times tilled being planted again, a river that had seen one-too many floods returning to its natural peace, a tree that had weathered storms that had stressed its boughs resting its leaves in stillness.  It smelled like a book that had been through much and seen much, that had finally been put on a shelf to rest. Battered, flimsy, and broken, its yellow pages sighed and fell still in my hands. 

The relationship that followed was anything but peaceful. From the first fanning of its pages I had expected the best from this book. But this did not happen. The book seemed to drag on forever as I read it, dragging me along behind, hitting my head against rocks in the road. Reading this book was like walking through a desert without an oasis: It left me exhausted and thirsting for more, occasionally visioning  a mirage. For a book that seemed so void of strength, it put up a good fight. Or rather, I lost many battles with it. I battled against the plot that seemed to have too many sub-stories and get too sidetracked. I battled against characters and events that seemed annoying, unfortunate, abhor-able. I continued to read it only to avoid defeat. I was determined to finish every book I started and when I finished this one, I knew victory would be sweet. I took this book with me everywhere--to school to read after finishing tests, camping, to church, even in the car. It was my constant companion. 

What happened in the final ten pages can only be described by the closing lines of hymn 235 "Should You Feel Inclined to Censure:" It says "Do not form opinions blindly; hastiness to trouble tends;/Those of whom we thought unkindly Oft become our warmest friends." And so it was. I can honestly say that the last ten pages of The Once and Future King are perhaps some of the loveliest final pages I have ever read because, after hating this book so decidedly for months, everything came together in those final ten pages. Every story over which I had groaned, every character for whom I had harbored enmity, every line at which I had laughed with derision ("It's a whale!"), all these things suddenly revealed their purpose. Of the many fictions I have ever read, this one's message perhaps resonated the most with me. For the first time since I had started the book my figurative thirst was replaced with a real one: the one left there by the lump in my throat. 

These days, the book is my constant companion not because of my desire to conquer it, but because of the comfort I find in its pages. When I travel, it is the book in my carry-on, the one to which I cling to help me through long flights so often accompanied by anxiety. When I need something to read that I know will not let me down, it is the first book for which I reach. And when I need a book's pages to fan, paper and ink to smell, it takes precedence over all others. The original copy I read from the Salt Lake Public Library has since been returned--but not before becoming the first book I ever renewed. I now have my own copy, a little more stout, a little less abused. When I bought it from the bookstore, of all the pretty copies and editions I could have chosen, I chose the one that was perhaps the most unattractive only because it was the same edition as the one from the library. Every time I pick it up, it reminds me of all the experiences I had the first time I read it and how sweet the reward when I arrived at the end. And of all my books, it smells the best. 

Urban Pocket Lint

Sorry, #3 does not apply to me.

Robert Corey

"5 1/2, 6, 6 1/2, 7. Black and brown at opposite ends. Work shoes at the top, dress shoes at the bottom." Every day for 13 hours a day, Robert Corey organized shoes. Every morning he woke up at 5: 27 AM and without opening his eyes, he would walk into his closet and stretch out his hand. He would walk back and forth among the 5 long shelves of shoes, gently brushing his finger-tips against each shoe in turn, a meditative caress. Thirty-three minutes later, he would choose the perfect shoe. 5 minutes later, after dressing, he would perform the sanctified ritual of slipping his left foot into his left shoe, followed by his right, putting on each shoe with a sigh. Taking care to not scuff his shoes, he would then drive to work at the Penny Loafer. 

When he arrived at the Penny Loafer he would begin by organizing all the shoes in the giant show-room, starting in the children's section and working his way through to men's. He loved to touch the shoes, to feel their different materials against his skin, to handle and hold them. He would position all the shoes perfectly in their boxes so that they fit comfortably, while still showing off the style. He would arrange them by size, style, color, heel-height and designer in a perfect and obsessive organization. When he was working nothing and no one could disturb him. 

When he had finished with the show-room, he would move into the enormous warehouse-like stock room, where he would repeat the ritual. Nothing gave him more pleasure than smelling the scent of new shoes, following the shoe's stitching with his index finger, or letting the shoe rest in his caring hand. No customer of the Penny Loafer would ever see this back room, but every night he would fall asleep dreaming of the beloved shoes in perfect rows. Robert Corey loved no one in his life so much as he loved shoes. 

At the end of the day, Robert Corey would say good-bye to the shoes and return to his home. He would carefully remove his shoes from his feet, polish, clean and caress them before putting them back in their proper place. Before turning the light out on his shoe closet, he would tell his shoes good-night, with a promise of returning in the morning. One minute later he would get into bed, three minutes later he would be thinking of shoes and seven minutes later he would be asleep. 

Park Swing

They came here every week after theater rehearsal. She once told him that every good memory she'd ever made had been at that park on the mountain overlooking the valley. She would always climb to the top of the jungle-jim, teetering dangerously on the edge as she raised her arms to embrace the sky and breathed in with a certain satisfaction the unmatched view of the sunset over the great lake and its island. Then she'd put down her arms and with great deliberation she would inhale and exhale the contentment of a slow and steady sigh. The whole time she performed this ritual, he was struck by the joy she seemed to drink into her life with every breath.

Then, full of energy, she would dance her way down from the jungle-jim and make a dash for the swings. She always went higher than he did and yet she never pumped her legs the way children are taught in elementary school. Instead, she propelled her body forward using the strength in her torso. No matter how many times he watched her, he could never copy her technique. But it was perhaps because his heart was not in it. If he had swung higher than her, he never would have been able to watch her face as it was lighted by the sunset at one moment, and then covered in the shadows of the trees as she fell back from the sky. He wouldn't have been able to see her wide smile. It was the only time she ever parted her lips when she smiled, the only time she ever let her guard down enough to really laugh. She would laugh without reservation, joking cheekily with him; and so thoroughly amazing him with her quick-witted comments as to leave him in a state of complete wonderment, dumbfounded and blundering by the time her joking stopped and she became more serious. 

She always stopped swinging when her tone became more serious. She would slump in the swing and lean her head to the side, resting it against the chain from which the swing hung. Her feet would burrow or carve nondescript designs into the sand. He would still his swing to her side and watch her expression turn in the twilight: brow troubled, gaze disturbed and focused on the ground, mouth down-turned. This was when she had expressed to him her college concerns, when she had told him about her troubles at home, when she had confessed to him that she had feelings for someone she pained herself would never feel back. Sometimes he would offer advice, other times he would extend sympathy and comfort. Most often, however, he would simply listen, not because he didn't have anything to say, but because he felt so strongly the pain through her words that the lump in his throat held any response prisoner in his chest. The grief in her voice always seemed too much for tears and as the last shafts of light were finally swallowed by the earth, her voice would turn hollow with anger and then it would stop altogether. 

In the dark she'd get up from the swing and lie in the grass, putting her arms behind her and resting her head in her hands, gazing at the stars between the leaves of the trees, attempting to make out constellations by turning her head at multiple angles. He would stare at the spot where he knew she lied, even though he couldn't see her, just knowing that she was there and imagining what she looked like put enough of a picture in his mind. Minutes would pass before his eyes made out her shadow distinguishable from the grass. Then he'd rise and walk over to her, standing next to her and looking down at her face framed by the soft tendrils of her hair and haloed by her arms, her eyes now closed. He'd lie down next to her, mimicking her position by putting his arms behind his head and leaving enough space between the two of them so that his elbow only seemed to brush hers. He tried to guess which stars she'd seen, which ones had seemed brightest to her, which constellations she had made out. By the time he'd get around to guessing at her thoughts, her sighs of misery had turned into the slow, shallow breaths that accompany sleep. 

He played the whole scene over in his mind as he stood looking at the playground in the waning daylight, like a ghost observing an event from his own life. He walked to the jungle-jim and climbed up to where she had always stood, sitting on the wall where she had braced herself, his legs hanging over the side. So this is what she saw. He'd never taken the time to join her, always content with the view from where he stood. But now... now he saw the sunset he'd watched her inhale, felt the light that had illuminated her face with gold. The sun was bleeding its passionate colors into the cool blue of the sky over the lake and pastelling the clouds over the crest of the island. No wonder this vision had inspired in her such euphoric expression: He'd never seen the sunset in such splendor, he'd always been to busy gazing at the splendor that was his best friend and taking his joy, or pain, from her own, that he'd never seen things from her perspective. 

He jumped down from the wall of the playground and strode towards the swings, taking his usual place. He curled his hands around the chains to either side of him and felt the piece of paper in his hand, trapped between the chain and his palm. It was this piece of paper that had brought him here. Her neat, slender handwriting was difficult to decipher among the many creases he'd made to it, balled up in his fist; but he tried, yearning, to make out its words. 

You've been my most patient and invaluable friend... I cannot expect you to understand nor do I want you to try... Please forgive me. 

The swing left of him, the one that should have been occupied by her, moved and creaked softly in the wind, as if nervous of her absence. The light gave up trying to fight against the darkness and he could no longer see her words. The swing stopped creaking as if she had gotten up to go lie on the grass. He imagined her getting up once more, thought he could hear the bareness of her feet upon the soft grass. He knew that she was there, and just like always he couldn't see her. The darkness had taken her from his view. Like always, he pretended to gaze at her figure on the grass. Minutes passed and he could not make out her shadow; so, worried, he rose to join her, to see her face and lie next to her. He looked down at her face, confused by the shape it had taken of the grass. He sat down next to her before falling on his back, resting his head in his arms, his elbow brushing hers. 

Almost. 

The leaves in the wind echoed the shallow breaths she did not breathe, although she slept. 

Tabula Rasa

I want to be void of feeling.
I want to be plastic and posable,
to answer insipidly and without inflection of tone,
emotion, or interest.
I want to gloss expression from my eyes and walk without
distinction,
to think nothing of any thing or any one
person.

I want to do nothing and feel
nothing and be nothing, to rip savagely from
my body every cathartic
feeling that now floods and suffocates: drowns.
I want these sentiments like pains to leave new, better
pains of emptiness.

I want my heart to be a permanent tabula rasa,
a cold stone with a character carved by the wind,
none of these affections dimpling my shell or smoothing
rough corners.
Better barren to live than dying through fruitless poisoned blossoms.

Floating Intellect: Camden

Her seat gave her the perfect vantage point for observing him without being noticed, but she couldn't help hoping that he might turn around and see her or walk past her on his way to refill his drink. Even from far away she knew it was him; she had every insignificant mannerism recorded in her mind. She knew him by the angle of his shoulders; the tilt of his head when he was talking, which differed from the tilt of his head when he was listening; the subtle gesticulation he made with his hands when trying to win someone over to his opinion. When he got up, she would recognize his posture in walking, the length of his stride, the weight of his footfall upon the ground. At that very moment the curve of his back, the position of his forearms on the edge of the table, the placement of his body slightly angled towards the woman with whom he was conversing told her that his conversation was light-hearted and casual. She imagined his facial expressions as he spoke: She imagined his shocking royal blue eyes animated and bright while he nodded his head in response to his breakfast companion's story. Perhaps his lips formed a knowing and mischievous smile.

She thought of that same smile directed at her, those same tempestuously blue eyes stopping her heart, stealing from her mind every intelligent thought and staying her lips. Even in her imagination she could not meet his gaze with the same boldness she could anyone else's. She became a shy child merely thinking about him, the ocean of his eyes away from her strikingly sharp-witted, convincingly sarcastic, and unabashedly blunt self. There was something in his air, the familiar and mature sound of his voice, the almost-twinkle in his eye that so intrigued and fascinated her that held all sensibility and confidence captive. The mere thought of him turned her entire world upon itself and left her intensely, disturbingly vulnerable; as if she could not conceal from him the tunnels of her mind or the caverns of her heart. This feeling that he could render her entire universe of thought and being unhinged, as if he could see and shape her soul, left her groping for some semblance of control; some way to know about him the things he could lay bare about her upon on instant's inquiry. From where did he come? Where was he going? About what did he dream? What were his goals? What dark thoughts did or would he entertain when he thought not even God could hear them?

Somewhere just beneath her throat she ached to know the answers to these questions. Her whole body seemed alight with curiosity, like a violently burning flame that started at her heart and curled its way around her bones, setting the floor on fire beneath her feet and burning brightly out her eyes. The fire escaped her control raging across the room to where he was seated snaking its way up the legs of his wooden chair leaving behind charred and blackened stubs as it roared up the perfect curve of his backbone."He will feel it," she thought with a panic that only fueled the flames. "No! Stop, STOP!" Her breath became quick and shallow, her heart like a hummingbird's wings. She saw and knew that he could feel the flames now upon his neck....

Abruptly he shot from his chair, turned to see her staring, grabbed his bag and walked past her as she abashedly reverted her gaze.