About Music...

I once looked to music to find my deepest self, but I found angry old men instead. I found vision takers I did not know hating me for things I did not say, and trouble makers I did not know hating me for things I did not do; I found electric guitars filled with opinions and politics galore. How could I find that in something as warm and free and spirited as music, you ask? Well, try having a hateful song written about you by people you did not know. That would turn you against music. Or try being called shallow for loving music with the very depths of your soul, for connecting with those who appreciate your soul, your music. For loving all people because you believed in their souls because they believed in music.

Here's how it was:

I was a poor teenager with a great love of music. Gorgeously throttled with chains of gold and jewels, tapes and vinyl; Rock 'n' roll was her name. Her golden fish tail curled up beneath her, her silvery cd tray spinning. Her white-grey arm lifting the glass ball of the sun to the skies that begot it. Her Windows Media Player buffering, connecting: Music. Nature. But I wasn't allowed to love this siren of the deep unless I was confident enough and moneyed enough to go to lots of her shows. "Their" shows mainly. They assumed because they didn't see me around that my profound love of music was a lie. To the assuming eyes of those who live through music differently, sometimes superficially, my knowledge of music was made up. Though I got it from the same place a lot of other kids got it: the radio, mostly independent radio. I talked about things even though "I didn't know what I was talking about", apparently. But how can you talk about things if you have no knowledge of those things? How would you know what to say? I thought I knew what I was talking about. If I didn't, I wouldn't have anything to say. Anything but lies which is what they assumed I was talking about even though they often knew little of these subjects and the significance they had on my soul.

They assumed that I couldn't have any love for or knowledge of music because I was a small woman and a poor, shy child. Those who are raised having everything they ever wanted in their whole lives have absolutely no understanding of what it's like to look through boarded up windows just to see more boarded up windows, or to have outdoor ants crawling under their beds from beneath the floor boards. Instead they just spread lies about all those they don't understand. The more these lies get back to that abstract, judged figure, the more powerless she becomes. She lurks in the darkness of predefined social status, roles, and stereotypes. People knew nothing of the nameless, faceless music lover as she whispered her found pain and lost poetry amid the white shadows and dark noises of night. Those who never spoke to her in their whole lives "said stuff about her" for fun. People said I didn't love music and there was never a greater lie.

People said I didn't tread the very soil of music. And I did. People said I was so make-believe I could never know anything about music. And I could. People said I was too caught up in myself to care about anything else. And I wasn't. At 17, I was shut in my bedroom crying myself to sleep every night. First the world had called me ugly because I couldn't afford a Body Shop Body and one of those expensive modified smiles that seemed all the rage back then, and still is. Shallowness was all the rage, and still is. Everyone was buying themselves a brand new smile. Their daddy's insurance paid for these smiles though emotional integrity says that the depth and truth of a smile should be free. And it is. And then the world called me stupid because I chose to think for myself instead of having someone else tell me how to think. I chose to educate myself in a different way than they did: independently. I was not one for allowing my thoughts to be controlled, certainly not by brains that push spirits around and mouths that shove hearts into a hateful past. I did what I loved not what others told me I should love.

The world had called the woman psychologically abused by music lazy for being too shy and too poor to go to the places they went, and do the things that they did. But around this time, the world had another pushing and shoving name to add to it's woman-pushing, child-shoving credit and this one was a doozie: try being called a liar. Man, that one poisons the righteous pride. Everything I said, no matter how true, suddenly became a lie because five old men in a cool rock 'n' roll band who didn't even know me said so for no reason. How could there even be a reason? I had never even talked to them let alone lie to them. How could they even know? And their word was gospel because they were cool and the shy kid is never cool. And copy-cats of spirit choose to follow this lying doctrine like some kind of radio cult or street religion. It was good to doubt she who rides a merry-go-round in her head that spins her nauseously through the painful years of her life...  makes her think she's crazy, makes her think she should be on pills, makes her not know what the fuck she thinks other then to think that what they think shouldn't even matter because they have absolutely nothing to do with her life. It was right to push and shove her with doubt. It was sound to not believe in she who believed in the magic in her own soul. In the religion of cool, hate is the first principle. And it's terrible that to spread lies as doctrine, some people use a gorgeous siren with as much depth of soul as music .

So, like everybody, I didn't get through my adolescence without a scratch. But the scratch is on my memory and conscience, and not on my soul. To have bad memories and damaged bleedings of conscience makes one doubt one's goodness. But to even have a memory and conscience for trauma refutes badness. Those who do truly bad don't even give a shit. And I remember everything I've done and said wrong in my entire life until my badness becomes grotesquely exaggerated in my head. Even though I've spent the best years of my life braving to do good, I only see those cowardly foolish things that seem bad to me. My love of music seems bad to me. My hatred of music seems bad to me.

Music held my attention until I was twenty-four, but then that skidded and screeched to a halt. I stopped listening to the very specific music programs that I had grown to love over the years. Then, by my late twenties, I practically left the passion for music behind without a trace. I decided I hated it suddenly. I hated the one thing I took solace in because that solace turned to angry mouths shouting their prejudices and jealousies at me. I told the world, somewhat illusorily, that I was free. I just hated what a lot of people involved in music had done to me. I wanted to extricate my soul from that. And I felt that if I freed my mind from music then I freed my soul of their anger. Not true. People never forget the damage done to their souls. But they must not let it destroy them. Music was my best friend. It was always there for me. And simply because a few ignoramuses exploited it, it suddenly became my gravest enemy. But slip on one of my favourite Ulrich Schnauss compositions: soul-swooning nostalgia, heart-crushing melancholy. It makes me want to love the beauty of music again. Leave behind all the bad stuff that attached itself to music while I wasn't looking. The fluff tough attitude that picked on me, leave it behind so I can see only the goodness and beauty that is inherent in the spirit of music itself.

It's not inherent in the big mouth of those who try to use music as a weapon against everyone who is different. Everyone who is different is ugly. Everyone they don't understand is bad. Everyone they're jealous of is good and beautiful and to them that is bad and ugly. They fire their music at everyone they try to knock down simply because they tried to stand up. They spit their song bullets at everyone they want to push behind simply for getting ahead.

Some say not every sound a bird makes is a song. Sometimes the cheery chirps and short cheeps are signals of food. The friendly trills and twitters are warnings of predators. And the warm whistles are just to keep in touch with the flock. Birdcalls they call them. Human beings make birdcalls too. Creating things that sound like music to the naïve ear but they actually have other motives in mind. I have been a victim of such motives. Music is a beautiful thing and should never carry messages of prejudice. But some use it as a voice for their hatred, or as a weapon for their abuse, or just as an excuse to to make others feel bad about themselves. Music has a lot of spirit, but all of the belly buttons and tight bums and bare legs and top tens and critics and money money money are going to shrink-wrap its integrity until there is not a speck of spirit left.

So often it is the music of silence and not the sound of music that is the songbird of my soul. And though it is said that the sounds of the bird are much shorter and less musical than the song, they sound like songs to me. Isn't that often the case? Many of the things that sound like music to me aren't music; and many of the things that are music don't sound like music to me. And besides bird songs aren't really songs either. Our little purple-feathered playboys are just cruisin'. And sometimes people songs aren't really songs either. But that's another kettle of belly buttons and tight bums. And I think I covered that already.

So now, I'm afraid to even listen to music. And I don't. I'm afraid to develop a taste for this music or that. And I won't. I'm afraid of electricity. And I am. It has a taste for eating me up, but then it spits out my heart. It turns things I love into an issue just because I love those things. Skinny on feeling and fat on attitude, electric politicians are mean to me just because I like whatever music. -"Bah, don't be so stupid b'y. D'ey sucks. D'at's garbage."- And then they wonder why I'd rather dismiss their friendship. It's not because I'm shallow and dismiss them because of their music; it's because of their soulless appreciation of their music to the point it dismisses the souls of others' music. I don't want to hear shit like that about things that speak to my soul. And I'm afraid of being accused of being shallow for connecting with the like-spirited, these very windows into my own heart who are into a complimentary way of thinking, a flattering way of feeling, if not the same music. How is it shallow to connect with the like-spirited? Those who have similar interests? especially when I fear that everyone else is just going to be mean to me because they have conflicting loves (and hates). They don't see me for who I really am. I love all people, or at least I try to. Hip Hop People and Indie Rock People and Old Time Country people. Perhaps this is why I've grown to hate music. It doesn't love all people because it has hated me. It has caused me to seek the company of those whose music has not judged me. I'm a practical/idealist poet. Imagine if I tried to build my friendships around other practical/idealist poets? Or any poets? I'd have no friends, ha-ha. But it is my prerogative to build my life and who I spend it with around people who have respect for me and the things I love as I try to respect them and the things that they love. I'm still trying to learn the truth about the truest, warmest, most spirited part of music; but TV and Internet and all those who rely on these devices keep distorting much perspective on music's truth. When there's an MTV and Rolling Stone for poetry then the truth would be grim, for sure. My life would be over. And that's a truth I don't want to ever face.

The woman psychologically abused by music, shallowness called her shallow. It must've been projecting (obviously) for it had inherently negative and critical perspectives on people with various lifestyles and no doubt had been confronted many times. When honestly she couldn't be bothered with making a judgment on others due to the music they're into or the clothes they like. She will, however, feel more inclined to make a judgment, but only if necessary, on their politics. But music is politics. Let's put it to you this way: my present live-in boyfriend loves music and I hate it - if that's any indication of how such ambiguous differences mean to me. Music: the spinning wheel of depth and emptiness spinning inspired hearts into confused minds. When choosing friends, music is one of the last things I consider. But when choosing friendship some degree of like-mindedness and like-heartedness is a mandate.

Music is after all a very touchy subject. And many take it way too seriously. Check out all of the music message boards online: pages upon pages of strangers doubting and questioning the integrity of musicians and those who like those musicians simply because they don't like what they're doing with their music. And gluttons for attitude eat it right up. But you can't measure the integrity of a savagely beaten self-esteem by the way it plucks an "a" string. And you sure as hell can't measure a dead ego's integrity by what you read online or hear on TV. Disregard such computer bullies; they don't even know these people. Their prey. One thing I do know: I'd never make it as a musician or a politician. I'm afraid of being called a liar because I have a different perspective on music and the world, a different perspective on life and music's importance in it. I am music's psychological tragedy. Music has done more damage than religion and politics could ever do. Hell, music is religion and politics. Thank God I'm a writer.

I feel abused by music. But I must not let their religion and their politics destroy my love of music, my sense of humor, myself.

I miss music. I miss loving music.

Elaine 06