Morning Music
Some music is morning music. And I have albums, sounds, background noises, that have accompanied my mornings through years.
I remember... Matthew Good's Beautiful Midnight brings me back to Blackcomb, its 2001, and we are huddled around a wood stove in BCIT, eating cereal. I am french braiding my hair into pigtails to fit under my tuque. Then there is Transatlanticism, pulling a few months through my memory back to this summer, the dreary weeks of French Camp, when rain sullied Vancouver to visitors but brought me closer to home than I had been in years. Death Cab's Seattle sound meshing so closely with my West Coast soul, and guiding me through UBC. On and on. This summer it was Left and Leaving on my way to work. My darkest winter was defined by Dave Matthews, especially Satellite and The Space Between, thrown in amongst Crash and Before These Crowded Streets. Thrown in amongst these are memories is The Calling, a random set of words that bring back all that bittersweet. Strange... christ and right now I can't afford to lose myself in those memories, and I know myself that I will drift back into it, much as I do enjoy to do so. Enough to listen to these words and think that in another time and place, another world, all of it would have been enough. Sometimes its not enough.
We talked about most things the other day, ending sadly and sweetly, and my honesty ran away with me, that maybe if he could stand-in, that we could stand-in for each other, and it would all be fine. But knowing so clearly that stand-ins don't do, and that we would both be worse off for it, I have let the matter fall. And as bittersweet as these memories are, I can't help but wish I was back there. Sometimes, just sometimes, and rarely... so rarely that I can't remember the last time I felt this way... something about the mornings, the morning music, the fact that on this side of the world it is light and back there it is dark, my heart tugs in that direction, somewhere that was once home. Now I'm lost in it, and I can remember the last time. It was more immediate. Last February. Staring out the window of the train. Tracy Chapman, The Promise. And you know? Its still true. All of it, every word. Every word I said.
And suddenly I have been typing too long, losing myself in this morning music, forgetting the brightest 7am I have seen in weeks thanks to Daylight Savings, forgetting the caffeine that is coursing through me, the presentation that awaits me in an hour, and the fact that I have to leave my house sooner than I would like.
I remember... Matthew Good's Beautiful Midnight brings me back to Blackcomb, its 2001, and we are huddled around a wood stove in BCIT, eating cereal. I am french braiding my hair into pigtails to fit under my tuque. Then there is Transatlanticism, pulling a few months through my memory back to this summer, the dreary weeks of French Camp, when rain sullied Vancouver to visitors but brought me closer to home than I had been in years. Death Cab's Seattle sound meshing so closely with my West Coast soul, and guiding me through UBC. On and on. This summer it was Left and Leaving on my way to work. My darkest winter was defined by Dave Matthews, especially Satellite and The Space Between, thrown in amongst Crash and Before These Crowded Streets. Thrown in amongst these are memories is The Calling, a random set of words that bring back all that bittersweet. Strange... christ and right now I can't afford to lose myself in those memories, and I know myself that I will drift back into it, much as I do enjoy to do so. Enough to listen to these words and think that in another time and place, another world, all of it would have been enough. Sometimes its not enough.
We talked about most things the other day, ending sadly and sweetly, and my honesty ran away with me, that maybe if he could stand-in, that we could stand-in for each other, and it would all be fine. But knowing so clearly that stand-ins don't do, and that we would both be worse off for it, I have let the matter fall. And as bittersweet as these memories are, I can't help but wish I was back there. Sometimes, just sometimes, and rarely... so rarely that I can't remember the last time I felt this way... something about the mornings, the morning music, the fact that on this side of the world it is light and back there it is dark, my heart tugs in that direction, somewhere that was once home. Now I'm lost in it, and I can remember the last time. It was more immediate. Last February. Staring out the window of the train. Tracy Chapman, The Promise. And you know? Its still true. All of it, every word. Every word I said.
And suddenly I have been typing too long, losing myself in this morning music, forgetting the brightest 7am I have seen in weeks thanks to Daylight Savings, forgetting the caffeine that is coursing through me, the presentation that awaits me in an hour, and the fact that I have to leave my house sooner than I would like.
posted by Care | 7:21 AM
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