A Quiet Distraction

For the last six days, I have been feverishly compiling every single scrap of music that I possess, scribing all into a portable matrix. Why I have begun to do this, and for what purpose, remains a veritable mystery. Am I driven to this madness for want of suitable diversion at work? Have I singled-out this particular part of my life to clear of clutter? Or is this merely reaction, against a sudden realization of age and a need to make sense of the chaos that had dominated the decades past?

I have found, though the activity of these last six days, that for all that my musical taste has altered over the years, there are a few constants: I enjoyed soundtracks immensely as a student and continue to enjoy them now. Nanci Griffith was the one country singer-songwriter that I admire, and her songs are still relevant to me now. Tori Amos, Alanis Morissette, Suzanne Vega. These ladies attracted me to their music with their passionate, and painful, lyrics almost two decades ago. I have listened as their styles changed and I still find their lyrics evocative and provocative. Enya and Loreena McKennitt both sooth and inspire me. Painting or drawing to their work seems to bring out greater passion and hunger in my work. But my favourite remains unchanged, to this day, some thirty years after I first heard what I deem the scariest piece of music in my youth: Wuthering Heights. Kate Bush has never failed to surprise me. Or scare me senseless. Or lull me into a hopelessly romantic mood.

I cannot explain the last. Perhaps this is the reason why most of my friends consider me somewhat insane.