in the middle of a 'discussion,' at peace with my music
As Rin and I argue over something silly like a bbq, I find that I have found a new safety from this strange world I have been calling home for two years now.
My music.
Let me say that again. My music.
My mother even calls it Heather's Music.
Before I left for Thailand the first time I went and blew a few hundred dollars on an i-pod-esque device which I thought was prettier than an i-pod, and held all the music I could ever want. I spend the remaining few days in the west glued to the screen infront of my parents' computer, trying to scrunch all my music into this 20 gigabites what would eventually be my only sanity in hard times.
I used this device religiously my first few months here before western T.V., listening to it until I wore the headphones to the wire. I went through speakers like they were candy and was constantly relieved that I had bought an adaptor which made it simple as pie to charge nearly every other day.
Rin and I spent our first all-night chats to the sounds from my little machine with cheap computer speakers, counting the hours until I had to work. He found music in my music, and we always had something to listen to.
After I moved to Bangkok I seemed to have lost the charger for this little device, and soon forgot about my music. I was listening to whatever was on. I became one of those people. When asked what they like to listen to, they would say 'whatever's on.' I was never one of those people. I always was full of artist names and certain versions of this song, track number this on this cd, to the brim. I know what I like, and I have liked these artists and moods they bring out since I was about 14. Sarah Maclaughlin, certain tracks; Natalie merchant, her live album and absolutely nothing on 'Motherland;' Jeff Buckley; Radiohead without the bizarre chord changes; Vivaldi for Sunday, but usually only the summer movement of the Four Seasons; super old and super new Madonna; Jann Arden and almost every single one of her songs in my car; Fionna Apple's 'When the Pawn;' and a selection of Eva Cassily, Miles Davis for rainy nights, Lorenna McKennitt when I was writing, and only when I was writing, and of course, about every possible song ever with a deep cello which made my skin jump in a good way.
I have never really listened to the radio, except for in the shower in high school, party because I don't like other people to pick my music. My mum would write to my and tell me she missed my music. My music was everything. It was a connection to my roots, a connection to comfort and happiness nothing else in this would could give me.
It has been about six months since I have listened to even a single song. I have bought CDs and listened to them in the car, but nothing that has really touched me. In a fit of cleaning to welcome our new house-mate last week Rin found the charger to my little wonder and I charged it up and have had the new earphones stuck in my ears at all times except for in the shower. I have newfound freedom. A new escape from things I am having a hard time thinking about right now. I nice memory of working with my mother in her little shop in Vermont. Buzzed nights in Montreal with a couple of crazy Australian girls, teaching them a thing or two about Canadian music. Memories are flooding back to me. I am busy with new highspeed internet at home, trying to make enough CDs to last Rin and I the ten hour drive we have ahead of us as we head into the jungle on Wednesday for the Thai new year.
My music is back, and so am I.
My music.
Let me say that again. My music.
My mother even calls it Heather's Music.
Before I left for Thailand the first time I went and blew a few hundred dollars on an i-pod-esque device which I thought was prettier than an i-pod, and held all the music I could ever want. I spend the remaining few days in the west glued to the screen infront of my parents' computer, trying to scrunch all my music into this 20 gigabites what would eventually be my only sanity in hard times.
I used this device religiously my first few months here before western T.V., listening to it until I wore the headphones to the wire. I went through speakers like they were candy and was constantly relieved that I had bought an adaptor which made it simple as pie to charge nearly every other day.
Rin and I spent our first all-night chats to the sounds from my little machine with cheap computer speakers, counting the hours until I had to work. He found music in my music, and we always had something to listen to.
After I moved to Bangkok I seemed to have lost the charger for this little device, and soon forgot about my music. I was listening to whatever was on. I became one of those people. When asked what they like to listen to, they would say 'whatever's on.' I was never one of those people. I always was full of artist names and certain versions of this song, track number this on this cd, to the brim. I know what I like, and I have liked these artists and moods they bring out since I was about 14. Sarah Maclaughlin, certain tracks; Natalie merchant, her live album and absolutely nothing on 'Motherland;' Jeff Buckley; Radiohead without the bizarre chord changes; Vivaldi for Sunday, but usually only the summer movement of the Four Seasons; super old and super new Madonna; Jann Arden and almost every single one of her songs in my car; Fionna Apple's 'When the Pawn;' and a selection of Eva Cassily, Miles Davis for rainy nights, Lorenna McKennitt when I was writing, and only when I was writing, and of course, about every possible song ever with a deep cello which made my skin jump in a good way.
I have never really listened to the radio, except for in the shower in high school, party because I don't like other people to pick my music. My mum would write to my and tell me she missed my music. My music was everything. It was a connection to my roots, a connection to comfort and happiness nothing else in this would could give me.
It has been about six months since I have listened to even a single song. I have bought CDs and listened to them in the car, but nothing that has really touched me. In a fit of cleaning to welcome our new house-mate last week Rin found the charger to my little wonder and I charged it up and have had the new earphones stuck in my ears at all times except for in the shower. I have newfound freedom. A new escape from things I am having a hard time thinking about right now. I nice memory of working with my mother in her little shop in Vermont. Buzzed nights in Montreal with a couple of crazy Australian girls, teaching them a thing or two about Canadian music. Memories are flooding back to me. I am busy with new highspeed internet at home, trying to make enough CDs to last Rin and I the ten hour drive we have ahead of us as we head into the jungle on Wednesday for the Thai new year.
My music is back, and so am I.
posted by isobella at 5:11 PM
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