…I don’t believe in fairy tales…
…In love with a zombie…
…Love like winter…
…No one suspects at all…

So, I’m sitting up, feeling sick. Curled up on cold porcelain, my insides revolting from CHICKEN, of all things, NOT the bloody Taco Bell I had earlier, I’m going into one of my states of catatonia.

This will be another one of those posts rather akin to my “Watson, using only musical theory…” post, so those of you that didn’t like it, do feel free to skip this one.

Music is said to have a curious effect on people unlike any other stimulus. It can evoke emotions with nothing more than sounds– not so much that the sound is connected to an event, like with scents triggering memories, but that sound itself is a language our brains seem coded to understand on more than one level.

Some people say music keeps them alive, but usually it is those that actively produce music. I rarely hear someone say that simply listening is what saves them, it is the creation of a tapestry of sound from nothing that seems to be most cathartic. If you ever get in the same room with a great musician, watch them as they play their instrument. They may connect to their audience, they may look at you, but they don’t really seem to see you, and if they do, fuck is it uncomfortable. The intensity they possess while doing their passion is positively unnerving.

Occasionally, however, I do meet an individual that is like myself. Massive music connection, seemingly random things thrown in here and there, and an inability to go through a day without listening or your life just feels empty. I sometimes even meet them on another level: we each have music that simply does something to us. Sometimes, even despite our best efforts to dislike it.

For example, take “Wonderland” by Natalia Kills. I’ve never been one for Alice In Wonderland, save for Zenoscope’s take on the tale. In many ways, the ideas have been said many times before, and probably said better– after all, it is a love song. Yet, after I heard it for the first time, something stuck. Something under my skin itched, something was missing. I watched the video. I then watched the uncut version of the video. I’m back to listening to it. Something in it simply settles into my head and lulls me into a state akin to being tipsy, or to being under the influence of painkillers… my eyelids get heavy, my eyes pass out of focus and my mind runs off to make its own connections to what the lyrics mean. For this particular song, my mind climbs all over the jungle-gym of connections that makes up my ideals and thoughts on love and partnership and my relationship with Jess, and how a relationship is like a type of fucked up dope that makes the world go away. If I’m not actively guiding my attention back to reality, I’ll stay wandering around in my red cloak with the Jabberwocky threatening my bodily integrity until the song ends.

At times, it can be a bit dangerous, let me tell you. Hell, it’s sometimes songs that start the trains of thought that tend to eat me and make me stay awake for hours– Hell, it was Judas’s fault that this particular post was written. Despite my wanting to look at Gaga and go “I really don’t care about you reconciling yourself with your religion” there’s still something in the song that hooked those velcro barbs to the nerves in me. Even gritting my teeth and going “DAMNIT, GAGA, YOU’RE GOING OFF THE DAMN RAILS!” something is bothering me about that damn song and won’t let me go. I hate the style, and yet here I am stuck listening to it. Maybe it’s my perverse fascination with the hypocrisy of religion and what is considered “blasphemous,” but I doubt it. If that was it, I’d snicker at it a few times, but I wouldn’t have a compulsion to listen to it again. And again.

It’s sometimes days or weeks later that I discover why it is that a song clicked so well with me and why it won’t leave. Sometimes it is because it reminds me of something so strongly, sometimes it’s because it evokes an overall feeling, sometimes it’s a piece of the lyrics. It was only fairly recently I discovered why “Prelude 12:21” and “Miss Murder” stuck so well:

“This is what I brought you/This you can keep/This is what I brought/You may forget me/I promised you my heart/Just promise one thing/Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep”

“…Hey Miss Murder/Can I make beauty stay/If I take my life?/”

Other than those two songs making you think I’m seriously depressed, they also carry expressions of my depressing/sociopathic views on love. I do carry the belief that should the only one for me, my person, my match leave me, all I ask is one thing: Do come back once more to see me, even if it simply is to close my eyes on my death bed. Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep. Then you get into my mania with Miss Murder: Okay, so you’re murdering me by leaving and destroying the thing I care about most, you and my relationship with you, and while it makes me a selfish prick, I’m eying that knife over there and wondering if I can avoid feeling the loss by stabbing myself in the chest. If you’re dead, technically, your love was just interrupted. No one broke up with anyone, another circumstance broke you up. So I didn’t fuck up and drive you away. YAY!

Hey, stop looking at me like that. Van Gogh cut off his ear and gave it to a prostitute. I admitted I’m being a selfish, psychotic prick with that previous bit. Van Gough thought it was just fine to give a severed limb and was annoyed when the chick ran away screaming.. Of course, that was probably due to the long term effects of lead poisoning, but that’s neither here nor there.

The point is that due to music’s ability to do this to me, it makes for a fantastic way for me to cope– the only problem is that only certain songs manage to have the full effect, the rest are just distractions. It is at that point I turn to other things to help take my mind off things more completely… like blogging nonsense at three in the morning about my musical listening habits and the meanings therein.

Also, for those of you still concerned for @DrHowl’s safety/sanity, do feel free to warn her to leave before I lock her in a closet and start calling her “my precious.” However, if you’re one of those people that takes something like that seriously coming from me, this blog may not be the best of places for you. Take a spoonful of salt with what I say in regards to violent outbursts, and for maximum effectiveness, take said spoonful on the rim of a tasty margarita. Do that and suddenly, things will start to make a lot more sense around here.

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