Musical musings

This is a bit of a follow on from my last post, a stream of consciousness thing that's been bubbling in my head since I openly posted the words of a song that said what I wanted to but just couldn't articulate at the time.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not your stereotypical single mum that dreams of having her tragedies published in a 'real life' weekly (or as a mate of mine calls them, 'council flat magazines') because they're, like, waaaay too fackin' classy for Trisha an' anyway me dealers bird well she reckons them cants at the sosh watch all them shows an' chase ya to take the appearance fees off yer latest loan for Moay and Shandorns new Nikes fer facks sake!

Oh no, my eyes actually auto-avert if I come within ten yards of so much as a tabloid newspaper, I have a season ticket to the rather professional, if local, theatre so see more plays than movies in a year and only read Cosmopolitan for the centrefolds. Oh ok, and to giggle at the sex advice and tick off those tips that I've been doing for years. I've just never been highbrow enough to appreciate things like poetry in the accepted form. Classics usually leave me cold, apart from the odd notable exception brought to life; John Hannah reciting Stop all the clocks in FWAAF being the most obvious example (and yes, I know that's a movie and not a play but sod off with the picking up on details, this is a free-flowing thought thing, so there)( Having said that, the fact that I feel the need to use so many brackets to defend/explain myself is something I'm taking note of for a future non-pierced-navel gazing post)

So if, at best, I'm not illiterate and, at most, I'm actually quite a typical gemini that thrives on communicating and is easily able to do so; I can't help but wonder why do I constantly fall back onto song lyrics to express my feelings to those I care about in any way (including myself, after many years of personal growth work)?

I possess a madly wide range of music on my hdd and I've hooked it up to my amp so I can play mp3's through my massive, if old, Wharfedale speakers and hear my music of choice wherever I am in the house. Ok, the street. Oh alright! The locality if I'm having a particularly loud day but come on, I'm bang in the middle of a square mile or four of deaf pensioners so it's not like I'm disturbing anyone. The only complaint I ever had was from detached next door neighbour (who was the original inspiration for Catherine Tate's 'Nan' character, bless her) about Lemar finishing/Laughing Lenny Cohen starting and I learned my lesson; I've never been idle enough to let my player run alphabetically since that day so it's hardly ASBO time chez bitch.

The vast majority of people in my mobile phone book have their own, specific, ringtone so I know who's calling or texting me before I dig through my handbag. There are currently... *checks*.. 128 contacts on my pink v3 and each tone takes about ten minutes of mp3 editing and transferring from pc to phone, is my obsession showing yet? Is this a symptom of phone phobia or of an unhealthy need for a strangers words and melodies to remind me of my real life people and therefore inform my reaction to them contacting me?

My earliest (good) memory is inheriting the old music system when my parents upgraded to a vinyl and cassette set-up. Along with the teak-veneer encased player and matching, tinny speakers I got a collection of eight-track tapes that grew as everyone else duly updated their technology. Through these I discovered artists as varied as Uriah Heep, Talking Heads and Gene Pitney that I could listen to whenever I wanted, losing myself in lyrics and tunes that either confirmed I wasn't alone in my feelings or took me somewhere completely away from them depending on my need. No more simply accepting what the radio dj decided I should sing along to, this gave me choice in my escapism, the power was giddy-making. Better even than my beloved books, music lending itself more readily to multi-tasking than reading.

Maybe it's just that I'm aurally fixated. Sure, on a base level I appreciate a good looking man - and a good looking woman too as I'm being honest - but looks mean nothing to me if the beautiful one can't talk in a way that engages me. My standards for conversational engagement are pedestal height; if you don't amuse me with quick wit, enthuse me with your eloquently expressed passion for something I've never seen the attraction of or disabuse me of a notion I held whilst debating you'd better be able to talk just the right amount of dirty to hold my interest, let alone my tits.

This, of course, is the key to my attraction to online relationships and something that sis, being both dyslexic and suspicious of anything virtual, simply can't understand. She gives me an almost pitying look if I mention that the reason I'm smiling is an e-mail and I just know that her counsellors mind is thinking 'Oh dear, Ange is taking refuge in the virtual world and avoiding real life contact for fear of being vulnerable'. Bollocks. When you're communicating by e-mail or IM you stand or fall on your use of language and, for someone like me that loves words, it's the perfect filter. I've been accused of not wanting a real relationship when online has moved into real life but it's not that I don't want a real relationship, more that I won't accept a relationship where physical presence replaces proper communication. That's what lazy people do, they stop talking and assume that just being there is enough. It isn't. Not for me, anyway.

Maybe I've answered my own, clumsily asked, question. Perhaps music is so important to me because it represents true communication of real emotion; good, bad and ugly, and that's what I crave? Or maybe I'm just too lazy to think of my own words so pounce on other people's, pointing and crying 'See? See? That's what I mean!'