FOR THE FIRST WEEK OF THE 2ND QUARTER:
So while I was taking the unit 7 vocab test (which I completely failed, cos I didn't have the wkbk), I was sitting in one of the places in front of the bookshelf. One caught my eye: The Words of Every Song by Liz Moore.
I suppose, I chose it because:
I
love
Music.
I don't know what I'd do without it. Actually I do-- my loving mother has just confiscated my ipod (in response to me failing to clean my room properly, psssshhh.) and I am simply dying inside. Especially on the bus. In the mornings, the immature underclassmen (I assure you, I was never remotely like them) laugh, shout, talk as if it isn't seven in the morning. It's vexing, and they continually try my patience. I mean, if I'm not able to listen to the music on the bus, then what is the next most likely thing to do on a dark, recently heated bus, early in the morning? Sleep of course. BUT I CAN'T EFFING SLEEP IF THERE'S STUPID LITTLE KIDS SCREAMING ALL OVER THE GODFORSAKEN PLACE. I swear. I won't last long without my beloved ipod.
Anyway, let me go on to explain what drew me to this book, as well as what draws me to music.
A lot of people use music to concentrate. To relax. To vent. To escape. To lose oneself. As inspiration. As comfort. I am one of those people. In fact, I'm hooked up to the media player on my computer right now, as I write this. Music doesn't affect my writing. It allows me to ignore everything else in the room, and to focus on my thoughts and the beat simultaneously without one or the other competing to drown out the other. It's delicious.
Yeah, I use weird words to describe music sometimes. If I could taste music, it would taste pretty damn good (yay for teenage vulgarity!). Like rainbows and unicorns, and iron-y like blood, and a little dark like shadows, and a little chocolaty-- because chocolate is heaven, as is music. At least in my world. Ignore me, I go off on a tangent sometimes, as you can see from my little taste bud analyzation of un-taste-able objects (not even objects, more like ideas that please the ear).
So back to the title of the book. The Words of Every Song. I find that when I am in a happy-go-lucky mood, not particularly caring about anything at all-- I don't care about the exact words or meaning in the songs I listen to. It's all about the beat, the tune, the overall mood that the song puts me in. It could be about grinding, about money, about sex, about unrequited pathetic love (yeah, I just listed all the songs popular today) and I wouldn't care one bit. As long I'm in that particular mood.
However, if I am in a frustrated, depressed, worrisome, angry, or any sort of unwanted, vile kind of mood-- I care about the context of the song. The words have to match; they have to mean something personal, and something worth actually listening to. Those lyrics have to be able to reach into my soul and magically relieve me of the symptoms of my plight. It's like medicine. The tune doesn't have to be good. The beat doesn't have to be spot on, although, if it's actually a lyrically good song, then the beat, tune, and words are usually of the same quality. Just 'cause it was probably made by someone who was not an imbecile, and who has been in my position before and therefore, is eloquently expressing his views.
Man, as soon as I slam on those ear buds, it's like there's a stopper to every bad feeling I've ever had the misfortune of feeling. It's like I'm suspended in time, and I find myself closing my eyes, and losing my breath and my life and myself in that moment as soon as it starts. Oh, and if the singer's voice is deep and grumbly, godddd it's like I'm dying from the perfection.
It's overwhelmingly wonderful. It's exactly what I need.
ANYWAY, on to the actual book.
I'm not going to say it's wonderful, or especially well-written, but it is.... different. In it's own way.
It's a collection of short stories-- most of them are depressingly depressing--and the main characters of each story are interlinked in a massive tangled web of messed-up lives and screwed-up love, and none of them know it. It's also all about music. As in, some of the stories' main characters are employed at a music corporation, and some of the main characters perform for it (they're clients).
One story: Siobhan In Love struck me as . . . I don't even really know. Let me explain. Siobhan (a young punk rock female) is the lead singer of an up and coming band called The Burn.
She has only ever loved one thing (or rather, person) in her short life, and that person is Kurt Cobain. The day he died was the day she had gotten her first period. It was embarrassing-- standing up at the end of class, only to see a red spot on the chair, leaving it safe to assume that "it's twin was probably blooming across her plaid covered ass."
Later she would reflect-- inaccurately--upon the idea that she and Kurt Cobain might have started bleeding simultaneously. . . . .
That night. . . . Siobhan had lit candles . . . by the statue for the Blessed Virgin in front of St. Jeremiah's. She fumbled under her bed for a copy of Rolling Stone that she had borrowed from her friend.
Siobhan, looking for an appropriate tribute to the life and death of Kurt Cobain, was working away at her inner ankle with the pocketknife. She was carving 'K.C.' just below where her sock would end. It hurt, but not eh way the tampon had hurt her and not the way the shot would hurt. She closed her eyes and dug the knife in far enough to really hurt but not bleed too much. She multiplied by a thousand: Would that be death? Would that be a bullet in the mouth?
Kurt was watching her from the magazine. He was beautiful, really beautiful, angelic and blond. Painful to look at.
And then the story ends with: And here's Siobhan: in love with a dead man with desperate eyes, a man she's never met, a man she bled for twice.
Enough said. It's pretty self-explanatory, pretty shocking. Pretty sad.
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