Running up more hills...

I love music. And, therefore, I hate music.

Some writers thrive on background tunes to stir their muse.

Not me.

Nuh-uh. No way.

I know better. Listening to music freezes every ounce of creativity and I go into Analytical Mode. I pick out guitars licks, key changes, and voice harmonies. I zone when I write (where ‘zone’ is a verb. I zone, you zone, he zones.) And I zone when I listen to music.

Thing is, they’re different zones. Moving from one to the other is sooo difficult. And I know that.

But tonight, a friend posted a link to Kate Bush’s cover of Taupin/John’sRocket Man.

 Bollocks. I can’t resist Kate Bush.

I remember that song so well. And man, she looks so much sexier on the video than I remember—and she looked pretty damned hot back then.

Caught up, I drifted to other tracks, remembering the Hounds of Love album I must have listened to a million times. A favourite if ever there was one. And Kate Bush led me to Dave Gilmour, led me to Neil Young, to James Taylor, and back through the years to Annie Lennox.

Jesus.

It’s easy to think Nostalgia messes me up emotionally, but it doesn’t. I’m not a nostalgic sort of person. They weren’t the ‘good old days’ at all. They were internet deficient, pre-computer days. Hell no, I’m happier today and I just hope I’m around to see what happens to computing over the next half century. It’s gonna be something else, you know?

"Ophelia" ~ John Millais

No, what messes me up is an appreciation of music. Some people get all mushy about artwork. They can faint at the joy some paintings bring them. Seriously. Visuals don’t do that to me. (Okay, apart Millais’ Ophelia, but that’s different, because in the early 70’s I fell in love with the model, Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s wife, Elizabeth, and I can’t see that painting without remembering what a sad and tragic life she had, and I get sort of mushy about her demise.)

Mushy. Yeah. Good music makes me cry. Deal with it.

I have two projects on the go, right now. First—and the most important because there’s a tight deadline (like, the end of this month)—of getting the autobiography of a friend’s father edited, and sourcing a decently priced printer (POD probably); and secondly, and a couple of weird and freaked out shorts—one of which kept me awake half of last night because I couldn’t sleep through the idea and just had to see how it looked in pixels.

I had all intentions of getting back to writing, tonight...

But, Momma, the songs are still playin’ in ma head.

Getting back to anything without hearing Lennox’s LittleBird or Young’s Heart of Gold, or Bush’s Running up that Hill is going to be a hill of its own to run up.

But, hell, look at this. Even with Kate’s vocals in my head, I’ve just done a blogpost. And it’s not even midnight, yet.

We survived another asteroid fly-by yesterday. Things are looking up, and I might not need to snip the wire to my laptop’s internal speakers after all.

Enjoy the links. I won’t be listening with you. Imma gonna take my shoes off and throw them in the lake.