I was lying on the floor listening to Brandi Carlile sing and it made me want to cry. I don't cry, not in the cold unfeeling way of sociopaths and dictators, but in a blockage borne of a freighted adolesence, but that's neither here nor there. The there there, for lack of a better turn of phrase, is the there of the way that music moves me. And maybe you too. There's something about certain songs that make me want to cry, not the cathartic cry of frustrated days spent toiling away at impossble tasks, but rather the cries that bind us together as fellow travelers. In the liner notes for her skillfull covers project Cover Girl Shawn Colvin talks about the moments of transendence achieved by certain songs, moments when it feels as if we are watching our lives from above our bodies, seeing the world from the sky, a moment that reminds me of Faith Ringgold's quilt (and children's book) of a girl flying above the city. I feel both deep within my skies and miles away, closer to everyone around me and yet wonderfully isolated in a moment of myself and the aural. And I want to cry. I'm an academic, so I turn to words like affect to describe this moment, a word that describes (as I understand it, which is slippery at best) a shared emotion. But affect fails me here, because I want so badly to share these moments, I make a million mix cds for my friends, poring over old CDs, old playlists, re-listening to songs and considering sequencing and mood and theme. And I turn over a cd with a markered tracklist and I hope for an understanding. I jokingly say, if you don't like it, it will make a good coaster. But I am joking. I want affirmation of my private moment, I want feedback, I want to know that, as I suspected, I am not alone.
And yet.
I hear that certain lines, certain guitar riffs, certain pauses, certain phrases caught up with them in the place between waking and sleeping, or visited them as they walked about their lives.
Or I don't.
We can never have that moment together. We can see the same concerts, hear the same songs, but we can never feel the same things. I can try, and I want to try and get them up to my Tar Beach but I remain isolated, you remain isolated, and instead we mouth the words across the room, dance at the right moments, laugh at our foolishness, thrill to our favorite tracks, replay our favorite songs. Can we really share that affective moment?
I wonder if I really want to give up my aloneness. If I really want to stop lying in the dark or the light listening to Brandi, (or Adele, or Norah, or Kid Cudi, or Tori, or Annie, or k. d. , or Joni, or Maria, or Antony, or Patti, or Mary J) all by lonesome. I wonder what I'd lose if I ever knew you were really here with me, sharing the same feelings, feeling the strains of longing, regret, love, anguish, contempt, caring, in the same way.
Maybe I'd rather try and cry alone.
And yet.
I hear that certain lines, certain guitar riffs, certain pauses, certain phrases caught up with them in the place between waking and sleeping, or visited them as they walked about their lives.
Or I don't.
We can never have that moment together. We can see the same concerts, hear the same songs, but we can never feel the same things. I can try, and I want to try and get them up to my Tar Beach but I remain isolated, you remain isolated, and instead we mouth the words across the room, dance at the right moments, laugh at our foolishness, thrill to our favorite tracks, replay our favorite songs. Can we really share that affective moment?
I wonder if I really want to give up my aloneness. If I really want to stop lying in the dark or the light listening to Brandi, (or Adele, or Norah, or Kid Cudi, or Tori, or Annie, or k. d. , or Joni, or Maria, or Antony, or Patti, or Mary J) all by lonesome. I wonder what I'd lose if I ever knew you were really here with me, sharing the same feelings, feeling the strains of longing, regret, love, anguish, contempt, caring, in the same way.
Maybe I'd rather try and cry alone.
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