Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Solitude Sometimes Is

Am listening to Lifeblood by the Manic Street Preachers and it feels very much like my heart is breaking. It's during moments like these that I think I'm only pretending to be a writer, that I won't really be a writer until I can set down in words how a song and a memory can fill one up with such bittersweetness, such intense yet imprecise longing. "1985" plays, and I feel transported to my pre-teenhood and at the same time rooted here: a muddle of innocent ignorance and cynical self-awareness, romantic and idiotic, clueless and knowing, neither now nor then, possibilities spinning in the air but mistakes already made, years already done and gone. Keyboard-conjured notes ring and echo as James Dean Bradfield sings about "Empty Souls," and I think of lost chances and lives in fast-forward. Listening to "I Live To Fall Asleep" almost makes me want to cry; instead, I raise a squiggle-smile of intermingled affection and regret. "Glasnost" fills me with a hope both irrational and fleeting, yet recurring, if that makes any sense. Understand that I'm not even really trying to make the lyrics out -- though I'm sure that they're good -- it's just the way these songs sound that affects me so. And I know they won't -- can't -- make everyone feel the same way, or even close to the same way. It helps to have grown up in the 80s. It helps to be a little over-sensitive and self-centered, to be prone to bouts of nostalgia and daydreaming. It helps to be me, I guess.